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Mildred McElroy 

Or 

A Tale of Stenographic Life 


By 

Douglas Graham 


Philadelphia 
Thomas MacTaggart 

Publisher 


LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 


JAN 22 1904 

Copyright Entry 

A'*} . q.li o 4 

CLASS XXc. No. 

*7 4. 3 / 'T 

/ COPY S 


Copy right 1903 



omas MacTaggart 


« • 
« 

• • 


• • 


I 4 » 


« »4 


t • « 

4 






PRESS OF 

THE STENOGRAPHER 
1413 FILBERT ST. 
PHILADELPHIA 


Mildred McElroy. 



CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER. PAGE. 

I. A Future Stenographer 9 

II. A Baffle in the Business World. ... 15 

III. Deception 22 

IV. A Broken Heart 28 

V. The Professor’s Murder 34 

VI. A Desolate Home 40 

VII. Uncle Joe’s Coming 45 

VIII. Eclectic Shorthand 50 

IX. A Brother’s Death 56 

X. Thinking of Getting a Start 63 

XI. Discouragement 68 

XII. Going to “Windy City” 75 

XIII. A Stenographic Bureau 82 

XIV. An Employment Agency 88 

XV. A Typewriter Employment Office . . 94 



















XVI. Discharged ioi 

XVII. First Success 109 

XVIII. In a Law Office 114 

XIX. Darker Shadows 120 

XX. First Recommendation . X 126 

XXI. A Twelve-Dollar Job 131 

XXII. Writing a National Civil Service 

Examination 138 

XXIII. The Firm Fails 143 

XXIV. On the Board of Trade 148 

XXV. In the City Hall 154 

XXVI. Under the County 162 

XXVII. A Rejected Lover 171 

XXVIII. The Stock Broker’s Ward 181 

XXIX. Planning a Journalistic Career. . . . 190 

XXX. Together on the Press 196 

XXXI. The Broker’s Delusion 202 

XXXII. The Old, Old Caper 209 

XXXIII. The Parted Lovers 216 

XXXIV. Resignation 222 

XXXV. A Conversion 228 

XXXVI. United 237 


Mildred McElroy 


CHAPTER I. 

A FUTURE STENOGRAPHER. 

The wasting sunlight of a June day was kissing 
the dark green vines which overhung a white 
cottage in “The City of Elms” when a golden- 
haired girl came slowly up the flower-bordered 
walk. She was thinking, for the large blue eyes 
were downcast. She seated herself on the lower 
step of the porch, where her mother was sew- 
ing, and looked up at her sorrowfully. 

“You are later to-night, Flora,” said her moth- 
er; “did you have an examination to-day?” 

“No, mother,” answered the girl, “but we had 
a class meeting, and have decided to attend the 
commencement exercises over at the University 
to-night ; but, mother, dear, I cannot think of 
going while father is so ill. I would be thinking 
of him through it all. Was the doctor here to- 
day ?” 

“Yes, Flora, but he thinks his condition has 
not changed in the least.” 


10 


Mildred McElroy. 


“Oh, mother/’ said the girl, “it seems to me 
that father’s sufferings will never end in this 
world ; and do you remember how he used to tell 
me that when I finished the High School I could 
go on to Radcliffe ? And now commencement in 
a few days, and still no hope of father’s getting 
well. It seems to me sometimes like a dream, 
and then I think of Malcolm’s having to leave 
school, and he was so much brighter than I. I 
think it is hard, but when I think of him it tears 
my heart asunder,” and the girl hid her head in 
her mother’s lap and wept. 

The girl’s smothered sobs had awakened her 
father, who was resting on a couch in the cottage, 
and a cloud passed over the face of the sick man 
as he lifted his head from the pillow. His face 
was pale and thin and his limbs weak, for he was 
suffering from a tubercular disease, from which 
he knew there could be no recovery. He took his 
crutches and, unlatching the screen door, went 
to the child’s side and, stroking her bonny head, 
said: “Nay, nay, my daughter; this will never 
make father better. It breaks his heart to see 
you take it so. Be of good cheer, my lass, and 
when the summer days are come again Donald 
Montgomery will be back on his beat, as spry as 
any of them.” 

The mother stole away to her household duties, 


A Future Stenographer. 


ii 


and in her heart she bore the burden of the 
thought of that blighted life whose whole course 
had been marked by naught but the stamp of love 
and sacrifice for his promising young family. 
Only a year ago he had been one of the bravest 
policemen in New Haven, but now affliction’s 
unsympathizing hand had not waited — it had cut 
him down. The poor woman hastily prepared a 
few meagre dishes for the evening meal, and, 
calling Flora, said: “You can eat your supper 
before Malcolm comes, child, because he will not 
be home until late to-night, and if you are going 
you will have to hurry. It is after six now. You 
will want your white dress, and I must show you 
the bunch of lilies which Miss Marsden brought 
for you to wear. You should be thankful for 
good friends, my daughter ; they are more to you 
than riches. This noble woman, who has been 
your teacher for four long years, seems to under- 
stand you better than your own mother does ; yet 
I know it is for her dead sister’s sake that she 
takes such an interest in you. She told me you 
had been sad all day, and that she half guessed 
your thoughts.” 

“You look fine, Flora,” said her companion, 
who had come to go with her. “You must let 
your poor father see you to-night, even though 
you have to wake him. Then the doting school- 


12 


Mildred McElroy. 


mate looped up the golden hair with white rib- 
bons and after pinning the white lillies to the sim- 
ple dress of snowy muslin, led her before the mir- 
ror, saying: “Just admire your beauty,” and 
when Flora saw her reflection in the glass she felt 
a little thrill of pride, which she quickly sup- 
pressed, only remarking : “I will do.” 

Eight o’clock — and over Yale’s green campus 
an army of black-clad students marched steadily 
into the chapel. There were more than two hun- 
dred of these stalwart, promising young fellows, 
and the grave look on the faces of many of them 
showed that sober thoughts now and then passed 
through their minds, as they realized they were 
taking their seats for the last time. College fra- 
ternities, clubs, class meetings, football and base- 
ball games were at an end. College days were 
over. 

The attention of the audience was much attract- 
ed by the class orator, a young man of scarcely 
twenty-two, whom his fellows had dubbed the 
“marvel” of their class. This was Willard Mc- 
Elroy. And it could not be denied that his was 
a strong, vigorous personality, one that was well 
fitted to receive these acknowledgements of his 
genius. He acquitted himself worthily, and there 
was not one of those appreciative people who had 
centered in that quaint, classic town on this event- 


A Future Stenographer. 


13 


ful night who did not admire the young man who 
in their judgment possessed, without question, 
an exalted and elevated mind. 

“Is he not beautiful ?” whispered Flora to Miss 
Marsden, “and in what a graceful, charming man- 
ner he delivers his oration. How I wish Mal- 
colm could be in his place. How proud mother 
would be of him !” The child’s gushing admira- 
tion did not quite please the teacher, but she re- 
frained from speaking to her in the way she at 
first felt inclined to do. 

“Why, my dear,” she answered, “it is singular 
you should think so of him. Your teacher’s 
hobby is that little fat fellow over there, the class 
prophet.” 

“Oh ! Miss Marsden,” exclaimed Mildred zeal- 
ously, “such a fellow as he would never figure in 
romance.” 

Romance — and just why a cloud passed over 
the face of Katherine Marsden a stranger could 
not have divined. Perhaps she was thinking of 
the time Willard McElroy’s father stood in that 
very place years ago, for he, too, had been the 
orator of that year’s law class. 

“Yes, yes,” thought the woman, “he left a 
vacant space in my young heart, and learned to 
love another, but I — I filled that vacuum by hav- 
ing access to the spring of knowledge, and years 


14 


Mildred McElroy. 


have dulled that keen-edged liking which at one 
time in my life was sharp and bright.” 

But the teacher thought of Flora, thought of 
her as so different from herself. She feared that 
trusting, innocent soul would be lost in the glim- 
mer of the shining footlights of the world’s the- 
atre ere it had reached the gate of womanhood. 

“I will not say more to the child,” she thought. 
‘‘Flora never will, I am sure, meet Willard Mc- 
Elroy, and if she does, why should I think it? 
Should a son always inherit a father’s frivolous, 
boyish wrong?” 


CHAPTER II. 


A BAFFLE IN THE BUSINESS WORLD. 

“’Spose you can learn that stenography, sis?” 
was the boyish interrogation of Malcolm Mont- 
gomery. 

“Oh, yes, Malcolm; I’ll just have to learn it, 
that’s all. Father can read a good deal to me, 
and I think I will leave the business college after 
next month, as all that is necessary now is dicta- 
tion. But, Malcolm, it troubles me to know 
where I’ll get work. There is nothing in New 
Haven.” 

“You know, Flora,” answered the boy, “Fm 
certain that if I went down to New York this 
fall I could find something in this telegraphy 
'round Wall street. It seems to me sometimes 
when I read about brokers making hats of money 
that I must be trying my hand at it, too. You 
know, sis, I believe if I had a chance on ’Change 
you would not need to work at such a thing as 
shorthand, and if I was only a little older I’d 
have you down in Cambridge at any rate.” 

“Ah! Malcolm, those are day dreams,” said 
the golden-haired sister pensively. “We must 


i6 


Mildred McElroy. 


think of realities. I know you are ambitious, but 
father gets no better, and who knows but that 
our plans may be changed ?” The face of the boy 
in the moments which followed seemed to have 
grown ten years older, such a solemn look did it 
assume, and, looking up at his sister, he said : “If 
I could get a job down there now, sis, Fd take it, 
and could get a place for you in New York sure, 
and then father and mother would come, and per- 
haps the sharing of our good success might re- 
store father’s health. Even though I worked at 
labor for awhile, Flora, until I got started it 
would be better than staying here working for 
this low pay. You must not get discouraged. 
You know I’ve worked six months as messenger, 
and ’tis a year now that Fve been a helper, and I 
know I can take and send messages as good as 
any of those fellows, and New York is a first- 
rate place to work up from such a job. If Fve 
been cut out of school myself, Flora, I don’t want 
you to be. I hate the thoughts of your working 
in an office for one of those business duffers. I 
always thought you’d get something like school- 
teaching or proof-reading.” 

“How did you ever come to love me so, Mal- 
colm?” said the girl proudly. 

The boy with the wavy black hair and the gray 
eyes looked at her a moment and then sprang to 


A Baffle in the Business World. 


1 7 


his feet and, pushing back the clusters of golden 
hair from his sister’s forehead, said as he did so : 
“I cannot help it, sis; you are a dear girl and 
handsome as a picture.” 

He did not whistle as he walked quickly down 
the walk. No ; for he was not glad. It was not 
alone the responsibility of his work which he car- 
ried on his shoulders, but his mother, sis, as he 
called her, and his sick father. 

A few weeks more and Malcolm Montgomery 
was in the metropolis of the East, down in Wall 
street. He had finally secured a place as Board 
of Trade clerk, and the thought that the day was 
not far distant when he would be down in the pit 
bidding like the rest of them, his blood rising and 
falling to the surging heat of buying and selling 
stocks, animated the boy to do faithful, commend- 
able work. “And,” thought he, his face burning 
with enthusiasm, “I would always know just 
when to go ‘long’ and when to go ‘short,’ and 
always be able to prognosticate a ‘slump.’ 

He had not been there long when he dropped 
in the mail box a letter for that sweet sister down 
in New Haven, a letter that was full of boyish 
enthusiasm, and in it Malcolm Montgomery told 
her he was waiting for her coming. 

“Oh, mother, I’ll be all right now,” said Flora. 
“There will be no trouble about finding work in 


1 8 Mildred McElroy. 

New York. How I wish I could get into a law 
office, though, and maybe some day I could do 
reporting, and then what a sum of money I would 
earn !” 

“It seems I cannot wait until to-morrow,” were 
her added words, and at 4 o’clock of the follow- 
ing day Flora was in the waiting room of the 
Grand Central Station, in New York City. 

“I’m so glad to see you, Flora,” said the nine- 
teen-year-old boy as he took her in his arms and 
kissed her. “I’ve been hungrily lonesome since I 
left home. How is father? I’ve a good job in 
sight for you — eight dollars a week in a law 
office. I saw the pastor of the church here and 
told him all about you and father’s illness, and 
there were tears in his eyes when he promised to 
help me.” 

The next morning found Malcolm Montgom- 
ery and his sister on their way to an office on 
the fifteenth floor of one of New York’s large 
office buildings. It was to a gray-haired lawyer 
with a kind, benevolent face that the independent 
boy, in his conventional way, introduced his 
young sister. 

“How much learning have you ?” said the man 
kindly. “I want a girl who will understand what 
I dictate to her.” 


A Baffle in the Business World. 19 

“I have finished a classical course in the New 
Haven High School,” said Flora, looking at him 
earnestly. 

The lawyer listened with fixed attention, and 
then said : “Yes, I guess you will be all right. 
Even though you have had no experience in 
stenography, no doubt you’ll be able to serve first- 
class. You have done well for your age.” 

“Yes,” said the boy, “and if it had not been 
for reverses she’d never be here. If I earned 
three dollars more a week I’d have her in a col- 
lege.” 

The lawyer tried to repress a smile at the boy’s 
solicitude for his sister, and then he was think- 
ing: “All boys needed assistance, but this boy 
seemed so ready to take on his shoulders some- 
one’s else burdens. Really he is a remarkable 
lad,” thought the lawyer, “were he my son I 
should be as proud of him as I am of Willard.” 

“We may as well bring father and mother,” 
said Malcolm to his sister a few weeks later. “I 
think I can rent a house quite cheap if I take time 
to look around, and with your eight dollars and 
my twelve that will just keep us nicely. It is so 
gratifying to me, Flora, to see you getting along 
so well.” 

“And, Malcolm,” said the sister, “the strangest 
thing happened to-day. Mr. McElroy’s son came 


20 


Mildred McElroy. 


to work in the office, and who do you think it 
was? The young man I saw last summer at 
commencement in Yale, who was the class ora- 
tor; and, Malcolm, he is just as kind as he is 
beautiful looking. It is so nice to work for such 
people.” 

“Ah! sis,” said the boy, his face darkening a 
little, “I would not put too much faith in those 
chaps, for sometimes they can say slick words and 
do not mean them.” 

The girl did not answer this time. She only 
looked a little wonderingly at her brother. 

Two or three months after this incident Mal- 
colm found on Flora’s writing desk a slip of 
paper. She had a habit, the boy knew, of writ- 
ing out whatever she thought upon deeply; but 
this time Malcolm was chagrined. It was in 
the mystic art : 

The hieroglyphics would not. speak. “It is all 
Greek to me,” thought the boy, “but I’ll read it if 
it is the last thing I do on earth. It seems she 
did not write her T in shorthand, so T to start 
with. Now for the next word. I’ll have to get 
the textbook. — -Lay ; but I can’t find anything 
that will tell me atiout that little tickj and the next 


A Baffle in the Business World. 


21 


letter. I’ll have to search the whole alphabet 
over. j^_yee. And that little tick.' ✓ By George, 
it’s an o. Now, let’s see : ‘When a vowel is placed 
above a horizontal consonant, or to the left of 
any other, it is read before the consonant.’ She’s 
got that to the left of the last mark, so — ‘lov,’ 
why — ‘Love’ sure as the world. Now, that next 
little invisible thing. Guess I’ll go back to the 
alphabet and see if I can find anything like that. 
Jingoes, this is identical: Yuh_/$^ All I lack 
now is the name. But it’s that lawyer’s boy, she 
has in mind all right enough ; engaged to some- 
one, maybe, that belongs in the millionaire’s row. 
I know those guys too well, and sis is so reserved 
I hate to mention the subject to her. 

“But I think she will tell me about his per- 
formances before long,” thought Malcolm Mont- 
gomery. 


CHAPTER III. 


deception. 

“I will not be gone over three months, Willard, 
and I think you will be able to get along all right. 
Miss Montgomery will be a world of help to you. 
The girl is ambitious, and I am sure if she con- 
tinues to advance as rapidly as she has been doing 
she will make a business woman some day.” 

The young man said nothing, only nodded as- 
sent. In his father’s absence, however, he went 
earnestly to work, for his was too noble a nature 
to allow any foibles to interfere with his faithful 
performance of the duties which devolved upon 
him. 

Willard McElroy was a graduate from Yale 
in a literary and law course — a brilliant young 
man; yet there existed in his nature that which 
exists in the nature of so many of our so-called 
“brilliant young men” — an inclination to trifle 
with the affections of those who are less fortunate 
in their position in life. He confided in Flora, 
and related to her much concerning his college 
days, and when she told him of how she was 
among the high school students who were there 


Deception. 


23 


the night he graduated, and how grand she 
thought his oration, the young man looked at her 
earnestly and said: “You appreciated it, I know.” 
And the girl believed that no one before had ever 
been able to forecast his future greatness, or ever 
could, as she had. 

Willard McElroy did not count the trifling 
attentions he so often showed her, nor did he 
think them any more than mere kindnesses, but 
at each one Flora never failed to put down a black 
mark. How many times he stood with his arm 
on the back of the chair while she was writing 
out a paper and made some little suggestions, as : 
“If you will drop down another line, Miss Mont- 
gomery, before you write ‘in the Circuit Court of 
Genesee County’ it will look much better,” and 
the girl did not know why her hand trembled 
when she did as he advised. Neither did the 
young lawyer exact of her hard work as had been 
his father’s custom. Nay, it seemed to her he 
would do the task himself rather than suffer her 
staying beyond the usual hour. 

Yet Willard McElroy’s conscience was trou- 
bled. He was to marry an educated, aristocratic 
woman ; social prestige was the young man’s 
ambition, and, thought he, “it is presumption for 
a commonplace young woman to think I would 
stoop to marry her.” Nor could he for a moment 


24 


Mildred McElroy. 


number himself among that degraded class typi- 
fied in ‘‘The Gypsy’s Warning,” and, as if in hope 
of relieving his troubled mind, he took from his 
pocket a letter on creamy white paper, about 
which the scent of violets lingered — and it was 
dated Vassar — for Helen Fairfax was a college 
senior. 

“I must be careful,” he thought, after he had 
read its pages, “that Flora does not see this.” 
And why not Flora see this ? Such a conscience 
— elastic enough to stretch over the ground of a 
chivalric lover — and yet Flora must not see your 
letter. 

But Willard McElroy still struggled with the 
annoying thoughts: “I cannot see why she al- 
ways looks to me to give her some encourage- 
ment, as if I were more to her than father. 
It cannot be that these little attentions which my 
generous heart cannot help giving could affect 
her so ;” but the voice of conscience whispered 
that he must not indulge foolish fancies on the 
yielding mind of an inexperienced girl. 

Flora had rarely, if ever, mentioned to that 
trusting brother or faithful mother anything of 
this young man who was fast filling up the vacant 
space in her young heart. Dear, deluded, un- 
sophisticated child! She was only waiting for 
the time when Willard McElroy would ask her to 


Deception. 


25 


be his wife, and then what a joy it would be to 
her mother to know her daughter was to marry 
the son of a well-known New York lawyer. How 
much it would help to lift the burden from Mal- 
colm’s shoulders. “For,” thought the girl, “Wil- 
lard could not do all these things if he did not 
love me.” 

It was a dreary, rainy night in springtime, and 
Willard McElroy sat reading a letter which had 
come to him on the last post. 

“I suppose that means that I am to be there in 
October,” he mused. “I ought to write to Helen 
right away, for she will be anxious to know 
whether I got it or not.” The “it” being a posi- 
tion of teaching political economy and govern- 
ment in a Detroit college. But all this was Wil- 
lard McElroy’s thoughts. He did not say aloud 
what was passing through his mind, for if he had 
it woujd have reached the ears of Flora Montgom- 
ery, who was in the adjoining room backing 
some legal papers. 

“Oh, I do not just like this business life,” she 
said wofully to herself, as she looked out upon the 
rain-washed expanse of Broad street. “I would 
rather have a beautiful home with someone to 
love me. How can any woman feel that there is 
anything really grand about such a life ?” 

And scarcely had these thoughts passed 


26 Mildred McElroy. 

through her mind when Willard McElroy came to 
the door. 

“Are you going home to-night, Miss Mont- 
gomery?” he said. 

“Oh, yes,” said the girl, with a little start; 
“right away. I was only thinking.” 

“Thinking of what?” said the young man, as 
he drew near to the window by which the girl 
was standing. “Are you building one of those 
'Palaces of Art?’ Your work does not satisfy 
you of late.” 

Ah ! what a mesmeric influence those black eyes 
and those softening words had upon the pliant 
mind so susceptible to drink in the flatteries of 
the vain world. 

“The rain does not cease,” said the lawyer, 
peering out at the increasing storm, “and you 
have no umbrella. Get your wraps and I will put 
you on the car.” 

Then Willard McElroy threw on his greatcoat, 
turned out the electric lights and assisted the 
young stenographer into the elevator. Once on 
the street, he held over her his heavy silk um- 
brella, while with his left arm he half carried her 
over the muddy cross-way. 

No car was in sight, and he waited with her, 
and as he stood there beside her under the glare 
of the street lamps, a newsboy came round the 


Deception. 


27 


corner shouting the “New York Times,” occa- 
sionally breaking the monotony of his cries by 
whistling snatches of the old song: 

“Thou hast learned to love another, 

Thou hast broken every vow, 

We have parted from each other 
And my heart is lonely now.” 

As the echoes of the song died away the girl 
looked timidly up at the young man, and in that 
look he felt a strange reproval — a reproval for 
what? He had loved no other besides Helen 
Fairfax. He had broken no love vows. But still 
his argumentative thoughts did not drive that 
look away. Nor did they ever. It had come 
to stay. 


CHAPTER IV. 


A BROKEN HEART. 

“I will have to tell her,” thought Willard Mc- 
Elroy. “I presume it would not be right to go 
away without doing so.” 

It was the 26th day of June, and his father 
was to have returned on that day. 

“I wonder if ’twould be best to let her know I’m 
going to be married. I don’t believe I will. 
Father will tell her after I am gone, and I think 
the most dignified way would be to mention noth- 
ing to her as to what I am going to do. I will 
only say to her that I am to go away, and per- 
haps she will think I will be in New York again 
after some time.” 

So Willard McElroy turned and looked fur- 
tively toward the room where the stenographer 
was working. Then he summoned up courage 
and opened the door in a businesslike way. 

“I must say good-bye to you, Flora,” he said, 
extending to her his hand. 

“What — are you — are you going away?” said 
the girl, in a bewildered way. 

“Yes, little lady, for a time anyway, I guess;” 


A Broken Heart. 


29 


and Willard McElroy tried in vain to answer 
gayly. 

There were tears welling in her eyes at even 
the thoughts of his absence for some time, but 
this was not the worst. She made an effort to 
give him her slender little hand, but, being no 
longer able to conceal her grief, broke into a tor- 
rent of tears, and between her choked sobs said : 
“Oh,*Willard, it seems to me that you are going 
forever.” 

“Why, child, ” said the young man, chagrined. 
“Come, do not act in this way. You are only 
lonesome and imagine you will be homesick after 
I leave. Come, brace up! it would not do for 
anyone to come in and find you crying. You 
will have a chance to make better friends than I 
am, and there’s lots of time. You are only eigh- 
teen — that’s all, Flora — why, just a little girl!” 

But there was no need of further comment, and 
while the train was bearing him that afternoon 
far from New York City, he asked himself again 
and again : “Is it possible that she will never learn 
to forget me ?” 

Flora struggled on until the summer days were 
over, and one day just as autumn was beginning 
to cut out her jackets of yellow, scarlet and 
brown, she laid aside her pen and went to the 
desk of the gray-haired lawyer. “I think I need 


30 


Mildred McElroy. 


a little rest, Mr. McElroy,” said the girl, and the 
attorney answered hastily : “Yes, child ; take two 
weeks. Why did I not think to tell you to take 
it before ?” And in his heart he feared that rest 
would be forever. 

And now the two weeks have passed and Flora 
has not returned. She nestles down among the 
white pillows, and in her hand she holds a small 
volume of Washington Irving’s “Sketch Book.” 
She is reading again the story of the broken- 
hearted English maiden and the dashing army 
officer. 

“But the army officer did not have another,” 
she murmured sadly, “and Willard has;” and 
as she lay here with the dying sun streaming in 
around Eer, in each one of its rays she sees 
painted each and every one of those deceptive 
attentions that had been lavished upon her such 
a short time ago. Again and again she tried to 
put the thought of him who bestowed them from 
her mind, but alas ! she could not — she could not 
forget him. 

“I wish mother would come and close the win- 
dow,” thought the girl ; “I am so cold.” She . 
shivered and drew the coverlets closely around 
her, not knowing that the chill which was tightly 
clutching her weak body was the attendant of con- 
sumption. 


A Broken Heart. 


3i 


“And the dead leaves out there,” she continued 
thinking, “why can it be that the leaves are with- 
ered already, faded and fallen upon the earth’s 
worn, gray carpet — the leaves that just a little 
while ago covered the trees, and now they are 
red, bright red and scarlet, and scattered all 
round their rootlets. How I wish it would rain 
again like it did that night ! Why did he talk so 
to me? Why did he care whether my work sat- 
isfied me or not?” and the girl buried her face in 
her white flannel gown and wept. 

She was sleeping quietly when her brother 
Malcolm returned home, and did not waken when 
he bent eagerly over her and scanned her white 
face. 

“Oh, mother ! mother !” sobbed the boy in low 
tones of anguish, “why did I ever bring Flora 
here? She was too young, but yet why did we 
have so much trouble ? Oh ! he was a miserable 
wretch. I can forgive anything but that. No, 
she will never get well. I see it. It was all that 
killed father. He saw her dying by inches ever 
since Willard McElroy went away. Is there such 
a thing as justice? Oh! will God ever right 
these grievous wrongs?” 

And the boy flung himself down by the bed- 
side of his sister, and bitter tears washed his 
young face. 


32 


Mildred McElroy. 


Flora’s head stirred upon the pillows, and she 
opened her eyes amazedly upon the boy’s tear- 
stained face. “Why do you weep, Malcolm, when 
I am so happy, so happy? I never liked it very 
well ; stenography, I mean. It would have been 
so much better if I could have stayed in school. 
But can you find my notebook ? I think there is 
a letter in it I never wrote out. And, dear 
brother, I dreamed last night I was back in New 
Haven, and I could see the elm tree at our front 
door, under which I so often studied my lessons. 
Oh! I could see it so plainly, and how I wanted 
to be there again, away from it all. I could see 
so many of my schoolmates, and they were all in 
college, and I longed so to be with them. I 
thought I was in the chapel again, and that we 
were singing ‘Some Time We’ll Understand.’ 
Oh, then I thought I understood, but now I know 
that that is yet for me to learn. I dreamed, too, 
Malcolm, that the Willard McElroy I saw at com- 
mencement that night was someone else, and that 
he was not deceiving — that he was like you,” and 
the girl’s eyes closed and she sighed wearily. 

“Flora’s mind wanders so, mother,” said the 
boy, half choked with sobs. “I fear she’s worse 
than we know anything about.” 

“No, Malcolm,” answered his mother, “the 
doctor said this morning she had not near the 
fever she had yesterday.” 


A Broken Heart. 


33 


“Mother,” continued the boy, “you must rest 
to-night, and I will get some of the neighbors to 
stay with me. I cannot bear to leave Flora’s 
side; she is so restless. At times to-night I 
thought she did not know me.” 

So the boy watched while his mother slept — 
watched over that fair, sweet sister, and once 
when she laid her hand in his, looking up at him 
so wearily, a great rent was tom in the boy’s 
heart, but he could not weep — for his mother’s 
sake. 

“I am so happy, Malcolm, so happy,” she re- 
peated again. “There’ll be no more of it. Do 
not keep the notebook or anything I had there — 
it will make you sad — just my diploma from New 
Haven, for I loved that, and if you ever see him 
forgive him — Mother” — and the girl hardly knew 
anyone. “My mother, Malcolm, Wil — ” and the 
golden head in the boy’s arms was rigid. 

“Flora,” sobbed the brother, but his warm lips 
were only pressed against a frigid brow. 

They took her back to New Haven, to lay her 
at rest in one of those lonely churchyards which 
is hid in the Connecticut Valley. She was cloth- 
ed in the same white gown she wore the day Wil- 
lard graduated, so like her young, pure soul, 
and the slender hands were crossed upon the 
breast that once heaved and sighed for him who 
had so wronged her. 


CHAPTER V. 


THE PROFESSOR’S MURDER. 

And now ten years have passed since Flora 
Montgomery's death — ten years since Willard 
McElroy and his bride stepped upon the gangway 
of the Steamer Felix, in New York Harbor, on 
their return from their wedding trip, which had 
been spent on the violet kissed sod of “Merrie 
England," and from that day to this nothing had 
tended to make him unhappy, for when children 
came to bless his hearthstone he loved Helen even 
more. The picturesque cottage in the suburbs of 
the “City of the Straits" was everything but dis- 
contentment to him, and with Helen and the prat- 
tling baby faces in it what more in life was there 
to ask for ? 

It was a promising future which Willard Mc- 
Elroy had pictured before him, but as he sat in 
his library on this particular morning he invar- 
iably lifted his eyes from the Blackstone he was 
reading, and a worried look stole over his counte- 
nance. If he could have asked a question it 
would have relieved him, for Willard McElroy’s 
mind had been thrown into a chaos over an inci- 
dent of the night previous. 


The Professor’s Murder. 


35 


While eating dinner with a small company of 
friends in the Cadillac Hotel, in Detroit, he had 
noticed at the table adjoining them two brokers, 
who were much absorbed in a conversation on 
wheat. After some time the elder of the two 
left the cafe and the Professor found the eyes of 
the younger broker set upon him keenly, almost 
fiercely. “Where have I seen such an individ- 
ual?” thought Willard McElroy. “And what 
does he mean by assuming such a diabolical atti- 
tude? If it were only a passing, interested look 
I would not notice ; but there is something more 
behind it.” The gray eyes still pierced his very 
soul and sent cold shudders through his veins, and 
he was relieved when the tall, black-clad man 
arose, and, after tipping the waiter with a coin, 
departed. 

“I am racking my brain about that again this 
morning,” thought the Professor, “and I must 
forget it.” He opened his book again and al- 
most unaware his hand touched a folded parch- 
ment. Upon opening it he immediately recog- 
nized it as a paper he had once dictated in his 
father’s law office, in New York City, so many 
years ago. Yes, and it brought back the mem- 
ory of someone else, too — that golden-haired sten- 
ographer who had taken it down. Then sud- 
denly the Professor’s face grew white as ashes. 


36 


Mildred McElroy. 


“Her brother — she had a brother, but he was 
only a boy then. Yet years have passed. A 
broker — he was then a clerk on Wall street. 
Could it be possible? I had never wanted to 
know more — ” 

And the Professor was glad to be called to 
breakfast; but his wife did not understand his 
distracted manner, and interrupted his thoughts 
with the same interrogation for the second time : 
“Has your class been having an examination this 
week, Willard?” 

“No, Helen, examinations next week; and do 
not expect me home to-night,” he added after a 
moment’s pause. “I promised Prof. Girard by 
wire yesterday I would come down to Ann Arbor 
to-night.” Then he mechanically bade his wife 
good-bye, turned and walked slowly down the 
pathway. 

“Yes, she thought because I noticed her a little 
that I was in love with her,” the Professor mur- 
mured, but the picture only loomed up the 
brighter. He could not put it away. It haunted 
him — the white face with the innocent, trusting 
blue eyes could not be forgotten. The wicker 
gate responded to his touch and in its creak he 
heard a melancholy sound which made him think 
of long ago. The struggling rosebuds looked up 
at him from their grassy pillows and shook the 


The Professor’s Murder. 


37 


dew-drops from their thin petals like tears upon 
the earth below as if to shed them for rash and 
unforgiven acts of days gone by. 

And when he entered the college chapel they 
were singing: 

“Cast thy burden on the Lord.” 

“But,” thought the professor, “those words are 
for the Christians, and I am not even a sinner. 
Never have I thought until now on what con- 
stitutes a true Christian spirit. It never seemed 
to me that I had led anything but a blameless life, 
but I see now many faults in it — many, that 
would mark it as far from being blameless.” 

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” 

He was hearing again the usual morning 
Psalm. 

“Does that mean,” thought Willard McElroy, 
“that I shall not want for comfort?” 

And throughout the day he still thought of 
those times when he had been a thoughtless 
youth, and how he spurned as a man what he had 
gloated over as a boy ! “Oh ! what would Helen 
McElroy think — my wife, the most considerate 
of women ! She, who always leaned upon me 
with a noble woman’s pride, because she thought 
my nature one capable of doing no weak, small 
act. I can almost hear her say : ‘You have a child 
of your own, Willard, and were you called from 


38 


Mildred McElroy. 


this earth ’ere your time was scarcely up, you 
could only ask God to protect him from the cruel 
world that is ever ready to do as you have 
done.’ ” 

But Helen McElroy did not know it. She never 
would. “Yet,” thought the professor, “I should 
not allow my conscience to be smitten by trying 
to recall memories of something which I did, al- 
most not knowing it was wrong. I never told her 
that I loved her, and really did nothing which 
would make her think so; but when I think of 
her being dead it hurts me. And the poor child 
once told me of her father’s illness and of how 
she wanted to go on to school, but I did not give 
a moment’s consideration then to what she said. 
I was not charitable enough to show her even 
friendship. Yes, I wounded her child’s heart 
in a brutal way.” 

Long after the gas was lighted the professor 
worked at his desk. “I wish I had not promised 
Prof. Girard I would come,” he thought. “I hate 
to travel on such nights. They are fit to be spent 
only by one’s fireside.” 

And if Willard McElroy had seen the tall form 
who followed close behind him on the day pre- 
vious, when he approached the Postal’s opera- 
tor’s desk to send the Ann Arbor message, and 
if he could have seen the stranger as he bent his 


The Professor’s Murder. 


39 


ear to catch the language of the sounder, he 
might have had gloomy forebodings of ventur- 
ing out into the night’s dreary blackness alone. 

“I did not know it was so late” — and the pro- 
fessor glanced at an M. C. train schedule. “Only 
thirty mfnutes” — and he hastily put on a mackin- 
tosh and, taking up his hat and umbrella, left 
immediately. 

Black clouds rose over the city; a storm was 
approaching. “I wish I had taken a cab,” he 
thought, as he neared the railroad station, where 
for more than three rods the highway was thick- 
ly studded with trees and shrubs. A horseman 
appeared in the darkness. A deadly bullet flashed 
from a revolver, and Willard McElroy was with 
his Maker. 

Will the sins of inexperienced years be for- 
given ; or, will their revenge be visited on the 
heads of his innocent children? 


CHAPTER VI. 


A DESOLATE HOME. 

When the torrent of rain had subsided, and 
the gray dawn was breaking its way through 
the dark grove of trees where the professor lay 
murdered, a night watchman returning home 
from his work stumbled upon something dark 
lying by the roadside. He stopped — his face 
pallid with terror — could it be — it surely was 
Willard McElroy, whose home was in the same 
suburb. The murdered man’s face was stained 
with patches of blood from the cruel wound, and 
his hair was disheveled by the night wind. 

Breathless, the watchman ran to find someone 
who would tell the terrible news to the wife of 
this unfortunate victim ; for someone must be 
there to console her — someone to offer condo- 
lence. But, ah! will consolation alleviate that 
sharp sting which death ever brings with it when 
it asks for admittance? Is there such thing as 
consolation only for the hard of heart? From 
those souls in which God has placed the silver 
bow of feeling and the golden cord of love you 
can never lift the sorrow. Let them weep it out 


A Desolate Home. 


4i 


alone! In after years it will call forth prayers 
for the long departed. 

Then could they soothe this faithful, trusting 
woman ? Could they wipe away the thought that 
he would never come again? She only shrinks 
back, her face livid, and the thought of the night 
previous, with its moaning wind, making a dire- 
ful, mournful music which kept rhythm to the 
falling leaves only seems to deepen her sorrow! 
“Death, ” she thought “had called him, and he 
had never returned to his religion. He had 
talked much of it of late. Oh! why did God 
take him before his soul had been fitted to meet 
its Maker?” 

The children cried and called for “papa,” but 
the mother heard them not. She had sunk into 
a delirium and on the third day after his death 
the world was still to her an oblivion. She knew 
not that in the room below, he, whom she had 
loved for a lifetime, was sleeping, and that above 
his coffin these words were being read : 

“So when this corruptible shall have put on 
incorruption and this mortal shall have put on 
immortality, then shall be brought to pass the 
saying that is written: ‘Death is swallowed up 
in victory.’ ” 

Nor did the faintest echo of that saddest of 
all sad hymns fall upon her ear — “Nearer, my 


42 Mildred McElroy. 

God, to thee, e’en though it be a cross that 
raiseth me.” 

A few weeks later a dear friend reasoned thus 
with this grief-stricken widow : 

“Helen, Uncle Joe has been here many times, 
and the dear old man is heartbroken for you. 
You ought to be thankful to have him to look to. 
I know your affliction is great, but have not 
others borne sorrow? Your children are here; 
you must live for them. You will have a good 
home with Uncle Joe, and his life has been very 
lonesome since his dear wife’s death. You can 
close the cottage for a time until you are more 
resigned to arrange matters, and go there im- 
mediately.” 

But why does not Helen McElroy look to 
father or mother in this bereavement? Shortly 
before the death of her husband, his father, the 
New York attorney, died a bankrupt. And 
Helen McElroy’s parents — they have long since 
been dead. 

Just before the breeze of the Great Rebellion 
was stirred into a whirlwind, a Northern man 
invaded the home of a Virginia planter, and 
carried with him to the New York hills a beau- 
tiful Southern bride. No rasher act could have 
been performed — no worse crime could have been 


A Desolate Home. 


43 


committed in the eyes of the proud young 
Southerner, who looked upon the husband of his 
sister as an enemy of all who were dear to 
him. And his anger was cherished, each vic- 
tory of the North fanning it into a higher fury. 

Peace at last — and the soldier turns his 
thoughts toward home. Home, his loved child- 
hood home in ruins, and in this hour of repen- 
tance he is longing for his sister, his only sister. 
He writes a letter to a friend to learn of her 
whereabouts, and the woman replies, enclosing 
a note, the last one written to her by his sister ; 
it ran: 

“Captain Fairfax, my husband, is in Tennes- 
see.” 

With tear-stained eye the soldier looked at the 
worn, faded paper. It was the same familiar 
hand — Tennessee — “Shiloh,” repeated the man, 
“my sister’s husband must have been in that bat- 
tle ; and among the many who sleep on the bank 
of that dark river he knows is Capt. Fairfax.” 

The war record reveals the truth of his imagi- 
nation. His fears are realized, for Capt. Fair- 
fax, of New York city address, is on the death 
list of Shiloh. 

In a few days he is in the metropolis of the 
“Empire State.” He has found the suburb ; the 
street; the number — a cottage overhanging with 


44 


Mildred McElroy. 


vines. He knocks on the door. His heart beats. 
He thinks he can hear his sister’s footsteps. ’Tis 
the month of May, and the birds are singing on 
blossom-buried bows. A sweet, childish voice 
falls upon his ear. He turns, and in the pathway 
a childish vision of beauty greets him. ‘‘Grand- 
ma’s in the garden,” she says, pointing a delicate 
finger in that direction, and runs forth to bring 
her. The old man sinks down upon his knees — 
“My sister’s child,” he murmurs, “but, oh! my 

sister .” Then the dear old lady tells him 

the story of the child’s mother who is laid away 
in Mount Auburn, and of her only son, Capt. 
Fairfax. 

It is from this time that Uncle Joe McDowell, 
who is no other than this Southern man, has 
cared for Helen Fairfax until we found her leav- 
ing Vassar and the wife of Willard McElroy. 


CHAPTER VII. 


UNCLE JOE’S COMING. 

The goldenrod and the asters which grew 
about the old gray-gabled house on the McDow- 
ell homestead were dying; the large red-cheeked 
Northern Spy and the dull brown russet were 
drooping silently upon the withered earth ; wild 
geese were soaring slowly across freshly-plowed 
fields toward sun-kissed havens, and crows and 
rooks cawed gloomily on barren hickory branches 
and spread their great wings against the gray- 
threaded visage of an Indian summer sky, for it 
was autumn. 

Loads of apples stood in the orchard waiting 
for the mill ; the cribs were bursting with yellow 
ears and from the barn could be heard the cur- 
rying of sleek-coated, long-maned horses that 
munched greedily at grain and sweet clover ; and 
on the cold stillness of the autumn morning fell 
the creaking of the barn-yard gate as the men 
pushed through with brimming pails of milk. 
Then suddenly the breakfast bell gave one clang 
which almost seemed to sever the frosty band 
which was holding together the half-sun-touched 
world. 


46 


Mildred McElroy. 


Farmer McDowell sat down to the simple 
morning meal, and the men noticed that a cheer- 
ful look had replaced the sad one which had rest- 
ed on his face ever since his wife Margaret’s 
death. He realized, too, that in many ways the 
household had missed the careful hand of his 
good wife. The boards of the kitchen floor did 
not shine as of old like so many slabs of snow, 
and on the side-boards were many broken pieces 
of china and glass, where once they stood in 
neat rows glittering and sparkling. 

“I am going to bring Helen and the children 
over home to-day, boys,” said the old man, as 
he held out his cup for more coffee. “I am going 
to show Helen what country life can do for her. 
The poor girl has just been weighed down with 
trouble since Willard died. You remember little 
Mildred, Dan,” he continued, addressing one of 
the men ; “the dear, little thing makes me think 
of poor Margaret every time I look into her 
violet eyes. Have some dinner prepared,” he 
said to the cook, as he rose from the table, “we 
will be home about seven o’clock,” and half an 
hour later the spirited horses were taking the 
farmer swiftly away from the farm-house. Over 
roads paved with variegated leaves, they carried 
the old-fashioned buggy and before noon the 
pretty white cottage was reached. 


Uncle Joe’s Coming. 


4 7 


When the sound of the vehicle was heard on 
the driveway the children ran out to meet him, 
followed by their mother, who was dressed in 
a simple black gown. 

“Why, Helen,” said the farmer, trying to sup- 
press the sorrow which was rising in his heart at 
seeing her burst into tears ; “nay, my girl, what 
a way to act when the fairest blossoms in the 
country round are yours and Uncle Joe lifted 
the boy and girl in his arras and kissed them 
tenderly. 

It was a long, wearisome day that he spent 
arranging everything for Helen McElroy’s de- 
parture, for there were times when it almost 
seemed to her she could do nothing which would 
break her association with her home; but when 
looking on the children, it brought to her mind 
hopes of better and brighter days, so the poor 
woman worked earnestly, and ere evening fell 
and the key was turned in the door of her home, 
she was reconciled to her lot. 

Upon sunny, sandy acres stood the McDowell 
homestead, reigning regal over the many beau- 
tiful farms in Wayne County. Its level, rolling 
fields were watered by a broad creek, whose 
banks the wild rose graced, throwing to its cur- 
rent in the burning heat of summer Midas-like 
petals, and in winter asking protection from its 


48 


Mildred McElroy. 


ice bands. Along the broad, sloping lanes and 
the driveway leading by one side of the farm- 
house the mammoth oak, the weeping willow and 
the modest beech and maple flourished. 

It was here in these delightful haunts that a 
new life for Helen McElroy had begun, a life 
whose days were long and restful, and which 
spoke not of turmoil nor of strife, but whispered 
of ever-pending omens, of consolation and of 
peace. It was here that Mildred and Robert 
were reared, their young souls drinking in all 
the pleasures which befall happy, wholesome 
child-life on the farm — not even vaguely real- 
izing anything of the strenuous life of the 
mighty city ; but upon their mother’s heart, each 
year was falling with a heavy thud, for their 
educational advantages were meager, and she 
could in no way see a means of securing the 
money which it would take to educate them. 
When the district school was completed, they 
could go to the village academy of ten grades, 
but even this would be an exertion. And how 
much Willard McElroy had thought of doing 
for them when he lived. Did he see her struggle 
to do for them now? 

Helen McElroy could only wait, the lines of 
trouble slowly deepening on her brow, while the 
boy Robert grew more manly, his every look and 


Uncle Joe’s Coming. 


49 


action bespeaking his father, and the girl Mil- 
dred every day became more womanly and 
touched the mother’s heart with pride. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


ECLECTIC SHORTHAND. 

“View in these pages like a mirror bright 
That art divine, now bursting on your sight; 

Trace in each page the ready writer’s mind — 

’Tis here his shorthand secrets are defin'd.” 

Before Mildred McElroy had reached the age 
of fifteen years she had begun to realize what few 
do until they are nineteen or twenty; what it 
means to solve the problem of how to earn a 
livelihood ; but it was all because Mildred’s 
brother Robert might finish a college course that 
she and her mother had struggled so hard and 
made so many sacrifices. From childhood he had 
shown a particular aptitude for drawing and 
mathematics and was pursuing a course in the 
State Agricultural College, which would fit him to 
be a mechanical draftsman. Mildred did her part 
in an unselfishness of spirit, knowing that when 
Robert had completed his work he would obtain 
a good position and then she would be repaid 
liberally. 

But what could she do to help him even more 
than she was now doing? She had graduated 


Eclectic Shorthand. 


5i 


from the village school and there yet remained 
two long years before she would be seventeen — 
old enough to teach in the district schools. It 
seemed out of the question for her to wait until 
she would be that old, when even a day seemed 
a long, long century to her in this feverish stage 
of her young life. She racked her brain to think 
of the different avenues which furnished a means 
of earning money; yet many of them she knew 
to be barred from women. Stenography! She 
had heard of women engaging in this profession 
and had conceived the idea somewhere that some- 
times there were fabulous salaries paid to its 
practitioners. To learn it, though, without some- 
one’s assistance — this was the difficulty which 
confronted her. 

She went to her room and took from her desk 
a circular which she had received during the 
week past from a business college in Detroit ; but 
she found the tuition excessive, which made her 
going out of the question. Yet Mildred was 
bound to execute her plans. She would find the 
name of the text-book which they used and try 
to learn the art by self-study. She had read 
Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield, and if 
David learned it well enough to do Parliamen- 
tary Reporting she saw no reason why she would 
not be able to learn it to do office work. She did 


52 


Mildred McElroy. 


not procrastinate either, and wrote an order for 
a text-book in Eclectic Shorthand that very day 
— but unknown to anyone else. She did not tell 
Robert or her mother, for she was sure they 
would think a failure would only be the result of 
such an undertaking. 

She scarcely waited a week’s time after send- 
ing for the book before going to the post office. 
She threw her saddle upon the black colt and hur- 
ried away down the country road, and when she 
saw the eleven o’clock mail train sweeping 
through from the East, she was sure her pack- 
age was on it, and urged him on the faster. 

“The mail, please, in ‘Box 42,’ ” she said to 
the postmaster, and he handed her out a brown 
packet, on whose left-hand corner was stamped : 
“Scott, Foresman & Co., Educational Publish- 
ers, No. 378 Wabash avenue, Chicago, Ills.” It 
was the coveted book. She tucked it in beside 
her on the saddle and rode home faster than she 
had ever done in her life. She wondered, too, if 
the neighbors did not notice that she was riding 
fast, and if they did not know it was because 
she was hurrying home to learn her first lesson 
in shorthand. 

She gazed at the horizontal, forward slant and 
back slant lines — lines that she was to lengthen, 
shorten and dimish almost to minuteness; but 


Eclectic Shorthand. 


53 


she would master the alphabet she thought in a 
day, and she gave herself just one week in which 
to acquire the principles. Then would begin the 
writing of words. She practiced upon the letter 
“A.” She made it thus : ( when it was followed 
by ‘p’ or V and made it so ten times, but no 
sooner was she down-stairs before she had for- 
gotten whether it went upward or downward. 
She tried to make it with her finger on the plate 
— then on the tablecloth ; but those who sat at the 
table with her were beginning to notice her 
strange actions, and she tried it in despair on her 
dress. She was sure that it went upward, thus : 
1 and made it similarly one hundred times. She 
finished her lunch hastily and opened her text- 
book again, but alas, for unrewarded efforts ! she 
should have written her character downwards. 

But the weeks went on, and those principles 
which she thought to have mastered in seven 
days she still regarded in a dazed sort of way. 
Yet she struggled away at them unceasingly and 
’ere they were half placed in her mind she 
thought of dictation. She did not begin by 
taking down easy reading, but tried the hardest 
and most difficult class of literature, and then 
the reading back — the mystic characters refused 
to speak when cold. 

But Mildred persevered when she saw that 


54 


Mildred McElroy. 


she was slowly getting the system into her head 
and into her fingers, and her last effort would be 
to train both to work together. She copied edi- 
torials in the newspaper and read her shorthand 
characters an endless number of times until the 
words became as plain to her as print. She 
read, too, with the keenest interest, all the books 
which she could obtain on shorthand literature: 
“High Speed and How to Attain It;” T. A. 
Reed’s “Technical Reporting,” “The History of 
Shorthand,” etc. She would get Court Report- 
ing, she thought, after two or three years’ prac- 
tice at the longest. She could see herself taking 
the most difficult testimony of medical experts, 
and when the judge or attorney asked for a repe- 
tition of some part of it, she imagined herself 
leaning back in her chair and reading her notes 
with such ease and rapidity that they could fol- 
low her words. Then after a Court position had 
been obtained it would only be a matter of six 
months or so until she would be reporting a 
clergyman who would talk quite as rapidly as 
Philip Brooks did when Thomas Allan Reed fol- 
lowed him with note-book and pencil, although 
her brain whirled a little when she thought of 
writing 213 words per minute for half an hour. 

She thought of the National Service — and only 
five years until she would be old enough to write 


Eclectic Shorthand. 


55 


it. She would be sure to pass it, too, on a high 
mark and to get an appointment — and such a re- 
muneration as would be the result of this work. 
There would be no trouble about getting through 
a University then. 

And when she thought of all these bright 
promises and in the hazy distance of the future 
dreamed of their realization, her simple life upon 
the farm became monotonous — that life which 
gave her no assurance that brighter days would 
come. Would she ever become a stronger and a 
greater woman under these conditions? How 
sadly it compared with the city’s ostentation of 
splendor and magnificence ! This was the child’s 
version; she knew not what this rural training 
was doing for her; teaching her to know people 
as they really exist, the philosophy, as it were, of 
humankind ; imparting to her the power to think 
and reason upon the great problems of life which 
have all had their beginning here. 

And has not your childish philosophy ever re- 
vealed to you, Mildred, what you will encounter 
in the stenographic world — that world where no 
qualifications are fixed, where you are left to 
struggle with the just and the unjust? 

Can you breast the tide of its never-ceasing, 
surging difficulties until at last the bark of suc- 
cess floats you triumphantly to a sure and safer 
harbor of this trying sphere? 


CHAPTER IX. 


A BROTHER’S DEATH. 

Mildred was still taking dictation with great 
zeal in the firm belief that she would be able to 
obtain a position in stenography which would 
enable her to lend Robert the money of which 
she knew he would be so much in need in his 
senior year. 

It was now vacation time, and as Robert 
had become deeply interested in Mildred’s work, 
he read a great deal to her during the long sum- 
mer afternoons. To-day Mildred had selected 
Ian Maclaren’s “Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush 
and Other Sketches” for dictation exercises, and 
marked out that touching chapter — “A Scholar’s 
Funeral.” Was it the extreme sadness which 
these lines incite upon almost every reader of this 
Scotch story which caused Robert’s voice to grow 
unsteady as he read ? But why should he turn his 
face from her as if in an attempt to restrain a 
dry, choking cough which she had never before 
noticed — and just, too, as he had reached that 
paragraph which runs: 

“His peasant mother stood beside the body of 


A Brother’s Death. 


57 


her scholar son, whose hopes and thoughts she 
had shared, and through the window came the 
bleating of distant sheep. It was the idyl of 
Scottish University life.” 

In the weeks which followed Mildred saw that 
Robert’s strength was slowly, surely failing. The 
cough which at first was only slight, became now 
more frequent and he no longer tried to suppress 
it. Day by day he grew weaker, and the slightest 
task necessitated a long rest. It was then that 
Mildred saw the dark, unwavering shadow which 
was stealing about the homestead — a shadow 
which she feared would never be lifted until it 
drew away in its death grasp a dear one. Never 
before had it dawned upon her that this frail 
nineteen years of boyhood life was only to 
be compared to a flower in a hot-bed, which, 
when the first cold breath of winter strikes it, 
withers and dies. But Robert’s mind had been 
overladen when Mildred never knew, for no one 
realized more than he how much had been given 
up for him — all in order that the expenses which 
fall to college life might be met. 

And now each day she watched his face grow 
whiter, his hands thinner, and his voice less firm 
and at times almost inaudible. With his depar- 
ture from his accustomed work the welcome, 
cheerful sounds so peculiar to rural life seemed 


Mildred McElroy. 


58 

to assume a melancholy anguish. The birds twit- 
tered plaintive notes from their withered nests 
and then one by one left the orchard and the 
garden to lead their young on their first journey 
to the Southland ; the robin alone tarried longest, 
to sing upon the white rosebush near the door- 
way a farewell song — just for condolence. The 
pollen-laden bees stirred lazily the air which 
wafted in through the windows on whose sills the 
first creamy white chrysanthemums bloomed, dif- 
fusing their fragrance through the room like in- 
cense in a chancel. 

The raindrops fell upon the roof and dropped 
from the eaves like clods of clay upon a newly- 
closed coffin. The evening sunlight’s roseate 
hues faded in the valleys like flickering flames of 
red candles over the rites of departed ; at twilight 
the cattle wound their way with slower step 
across the grass-grown meadows up to the farm- 
yard; the katy-did’s song became longer and 
louder; and from the distant hillsides came the 
sound of the sheep-bell’s twinkling notes, falling 
upon the ear with the sadness of a funeral dirge. 

The summer deepened, and the winds wrested 
the dry leaves from the trees and carried them 
afar through the air to welcome in the autumn. 
Then when September’s last morning-glory had 
brought her young life to a close the fruit hung 


A Brother’s Death. 


59 


heavy down from the trees — Autumn’s gift from 
Summer’s promise. College days had really come, 
but Robert was not with them, nor would he ever 
be. Mildred shuddered as she glanced at the pal- 
lid face which looked at her dreamily, as if to 
say: “O Death in life, the days that are no 
more.” She drew away, but Robert laid his hand 
upon her arm and said : “You must know it, Mil- 
dred ; you must know it. I cannot live. For 
weeks I have known I should have gone, but 
now November’s veil is lifted and still I live. 
Each time I think of the campus grounds and 
of how the boys are hard at work, while I am 
only waiting with clasped hands for others to 
work for me, I ask that God be merciful and take 
me. You will not need me so much now, Mil- 
dred ; I have ceased to worry for you, and that is 
why I can die happy. I only regret that I have 
taken so much ; that mother has placed so many 
hopes in me, for it has been for naught — only to 
be swallowed in the grave.” 

“O ! Robert, Robert!” exclaimed Mildred, “do 
not talk so to me. You will not die. You must 
not leave me.” 

But Robert could not answer. His grief was 
too great for tears. Mildred could not bring her- 
self to realize that there was such a thing as 
death. There was death she knew which comes 


6o 


Mildred McElroy. 


to old age, but this — this would be an untimely 
death. Yet, she knew it to be Robert’s lot — Rob- 
ert in whom their mother had placed her whole 
soul. She must bury Robert. She must bow 
under the gentle yet seemingly harsh rod of the 
Creator. 

From a dull, gray sky streaked with shafts of 
ruddy light, late autumn’s sun was sinking when 
the parish minister gently consoled her mother. 
“You have Mildred left,” this was about all the 
man could say, this man who put his trust in the 
will of the Almighty. 

Mildred sat by his bedside hour after hour, 
only to wait. She laid her hand upon the blue- 
veined brow and passed her fingers through the 
damp, clustering curls, yet it did not wake him. 
She could not see why his sleep should be so 
long, so heavy. Why should the fingers which 
touched hers grow clammy? And the brow — its 
warmth was giving way to coldness — she shrank 
back — her head fell — not from Robert, but from 
Death. 

And now he had passed from this earth for- 
ever. It seemed only a few short hours since 
he had ceased to speak, yet Death had allotted 
all the time it ever gives. 

A hushed silence followed, while every one 
moved noiselessly about clad in sober garments, 


A Brother’s Death. 


61 


yet Mildred could not think it was for Robert. 
She watched the long line of carriages which 
stopped before the gate ; the undertaker who 
drove quietly the snow-white horses underneath 
a weeping willow, and opened softly the doors 
of the hearse, which she could not believe was 
for Robert. The fall wind threw a few yellow, 
blood-dappled leaves upon a white coffin which a 
group of college seniors bore sadly, and the white 
face and the closed gray eyes — whose were they 
— whose were they — but Robert’s ? 

She moved away, moved with the rest clothed 
in the shield of mourning. They passed the white 
school-house on the hill, and all was silent; its 
bell pealed forth not e’en a requiem note, nor did 
the faintest line of an afternoon shadow seem to 
break its melancholy stillness; and well it might 
not, for the dear old place was cherishing in its 
bosom a grief for one who, now departed, once 
moved about it long, and who was this one but 
Robert ? 

They formed a long procession beside the vil- 
lage church, and just before they carried him 
within its open doors the bell tolled out its 
eighteenth stroke, and who had it been for but 
Robert ? They passed by the seat where he had 
sat throughout his boyish years, and did not stop, 
but took him to a spot where all who loved him 


62 Mildred McElroy. 

might gather fondly 'round, for ’twas his last day 
here. 

The clergyman in gravest tones read from the 
cherished book : “In my Father’s house there are 
many mansions; if it were not so, I would have 
told you. I go to prepare a place for you.” 

And now the village choir sing in tranquil 
notes : “Jesus is there, he has gone to prepare 
a mansion of heavenly love.” 

Out among the white stones to a spot about 
whose freshly-disturbed earth the shadows were 
flitting they bore his casket. Its ropes were low- 
ered, and upon the filled-in earth the white doves 
which wheeled and circled reverently over his 
father’s tombstone looked peacefully and then 
flapped their broad wings as if to journey heav- 
enward to ask a benediction on an added grave. 


CHAPTER X. 


THINKING OF GETTING A START. 

“It has been a year, mother,” said Mildred, 
since Robert died.” 

The poor woman started at the mention of the 
grief which she had been trying to suppress for 
so long, scarcely comprehending why her daugh- 
ter should speak of it in this manner; and no 
one knows the struggle which took place in Mil- 
dred’s heart as she tried to begin anew what 
she had planned to tell her mother of going to 
work. Each time she tried to speak she saw 
the new-made grave at the foot of the hillside 
and fresh memories came rushing back of him 
who now slumbered peacefully beneath the nar- 
row plot of ground. 

“Yes, mother,” continued Mildred, “it has been 
a year since Robert died, and I must try and get 
work. We have had so much trouble and expense 
and cannot expect Uncle Joe to stand for every- 
thing; besides, what he has does not belong to 
us. I do not think I would have any trouble in 
getting a certificate, for I passed the last exam- 
ination, all but arithmetic, and got a pretty fair 


64 


Mildred McElroy. 


mark in general history and algebra; but I can 
work only eight months in the year at teaching, 
and in stenography could work full time.” 

“Yes, dear,” answered her mother; “I am will- 
ing you should do anything you think you are 
fitted for, but you are sure of teaching if you 
get your certificate, and stenography is uncertain. 
Then, too, you have had no experience, and there 
seems to be no chance of your getting anything 
here in W ” 

“I might go to Aunt Mary’s in Grand Rapids,” 
said Mildred, “and even though I worked for four 
or five dollars a week at first it would give me a 
start.” Her mother’s face grew sadder as she 
noted the sigh which escaped from the child’s 
lips at the mention of “Aunt Mary’s,” who was 
her father’s sister, a widow, who lived in fash- 
ionable style in Michigan’s great manufacturing 
city, with her two children, one a child of twelve, 
the other sixteen — one year Mildred’s junior. 

“I do not like to have you go there,” said her 
mother. You do not dress as well as they do, and 
you know your aunt is not a considerate woman ; 
but if it is the best that can be done, my child, we 
will think only of its bright side.” 

“Ah ! if Robert were only living,” thought Mil- 
dred, “I would not have to ask favors of these 
uncharitable relatives ; yet I must not think of this 


Thinking of Getting a Start. 65 

now. I must be brave. It will be lonesome for 
poor mother alone, and I am young and should be 
. able to endure these hardships.” 

A few more days passed and filled the link be- 
tween September and October. Mildred had 
rented a type-writer from the F. S. Webster Co., 
Chicago, for four months and the rental was due 
this month. Statements of account, bills, in- 
voices, deeds, legal and commercial papers of all 
kinds had been copied and recopied until she 
thought herself quite proficient. Then she sat 
down to write a letter to her Aunt Mary previ- 
ous to her departure: 

“Dear Aunt Mary: 

“I have not answered your last letter, and am 
almost ashamed of my negligence; but mother 
and I have been heartbroken since Robert died 
and have not thought of anything. No doubt 
you will be surprised to know that I have learned 
shorthand during this year and believe I would 
do pretty well at it if I could get started. It is 

foolish to think of obtaining work in W , 

so if you think best I believe I will come down 
next week and see what I can do. I hope Regina 
and Maude are in school and that you, Aunt 
Mary, are enjoying good health. Tell Uncle 
Will and Aunt Carrie I am coming, and ask little 
Agnes if she remembers Cousin Mildred. 

“With best wishes, I am your loving niece, 

“Mildred.” 


66 


Mildred McElroy. 


Does any individual exist who does not know 
the effect of such a letter when the mail carrier 
has placed it in the hands of a rich relative? 

There was now only three days left in which 
to pack the trunk and get everything in readi- 
ness to go. Mildred had told her plans to no one 
except her mother, but that night, when she sat 
down to dinner, she made known to Uncle Joe 
her desire to leave. He listened to all she said, 
and then his eyes rested on the chair made vacant 
not long ago by the death of the boy whose future 
had been so promising, and he thought sadly — 
“It seems I cannot part with her.” He had been 
young once, though, as young as she was, and 
again he heard the drums beating and was 
marching to the echoes of martial strains through 
the flowery fields of the States which border on 
the Gulf. The poor man’s supper was unfinished, 
but he pushed back his chair, and said: “Yes, 
Mildred, we will try to do without you.” 

Mildred stole away from the table and heard 
him telling her mother again that old, old South- 
ern story. 

The autumn wind whistled through the newly- 
cut corn shocks, and the full moon shone down 
gloriously on the yellow pumpkin, which clung 
longingly to the broad, frost-nipped leaves and 
rugged vine. She felt for the first time a throb 
of sorrow at leaving the farm. 


Thinking of Getting a Start. 


67 


She did not sleep much that night, for in her 
dreams she saw her mother’s anxious face. From 
what she had read, Mildred knew they expected 
more of people now-a-days than years ago, and 
somehow her mother did not seem to understand 
this, Mildred thought, and she dreaded to tell her, 
for she knew how much she would fear for her. 

The day came at last on which she was to go. 
She put on her brown dress and a linen collar, 
and how she wished she had a pair of kid gloves, 
but the cotton ones would do. The white kitten 
purred on the rug near the door, and the canary 
bird in its cage on the porch sang sweeter than 
ever — almost plaintively, Mildred thought — but 
she smothered it all, and turning, with tears in 
her eyes, bade her mother good-bye. 

It was all over. A few hours and she was in 
Grand Rapids — Daring to think she would have 
success. 


CHAPTER XI. 


DISCOURAGEMENT. 

The sight of those massive furniture factories, 
standing tall and smoke-covered against the sky, 
aroused in Mildred’s heart a new hope — a hope 
which she cherished and trusted that she would 
realize. “Surely,” she thought, as she changed 
her small satchel from one hand to the other, “I 
can obtain work in some one of these factories 
that employ so many if I am willing to work for 
four or five dollars per week but, Mildred, that 
four or five dollars is a fortune to you now, and 
the world knows it, and has always known it. It 
is not so easily gotten in the stenographic field or 
any other. 

She was now on Cedar street, nearing the 
brown-stone house in which her aunt lived. When 
Mildred rang the bell her aunt was sewing in an 
adjoining room, and wondered who it could be 
that was making such a late afternoon call. Some 
measure of love lingered in her heart for her 
own flesh and blood, so there was a trifle of cor- 
diality in the manner in which she greeted her 
niece. She took Mildred’s valise and umbrella 


Discouragement. 


69 


and bade her be seated while she told her how 
anxious she had been to see her and her mother 
again after Robert’s death. 

Mildred’s aunt was typical of the rich widow, 
whose nature is characterized by hautiness and 
avarice. She was a close follower of fashion, and 
did not go out to market even until she had tried 
on several garments to ascertain which looked 
best ; but that the woman should be so interested 
in worldly things was not strange, since her mar- 
riage had been more of a matter of business than 
of love. 

She talked to Mildred, though, much in the 
way she thought it was her duty to do, and told 
her she thought she would be able to get a situa- 
tion easily enough. “You can board with me,” she 
femarked, “but you, of course, cannot expect to 
stay anywhere for nothing.” There were pangs 
of regret coursing through Mildred’s heart even 
now, and she wished she had not come. 

When the children returned from a shopping 
tour down town they greeted Mildred as chil- 
dren will, and Regina forgot her malice and told 
her of her good times at boarding school. She 
went up-stairs and showed her new fall gown, 
and insisted that Mildred try it on — “I know it 
would be an awful becoming color,” she said, 
pleasantly, for Mildred’s personal magnetism 


yo Mildred McElroy. 

was fast overcoming the prejudices aroused by 
her mother. 

Regina accompanied Mildred the next day to 
register with a large desk company, and while 
they sat waiting for the head stenographer to 
consider the application Mildred’s face grew pale 
as she saw how swiftly some of the stenographers 
worked, and yet were drawing only the meager 
sum of three or four dollars per week. Mildred 
continued making personal applications in dif- 
erent firms, but was informed in each one that 
they did not want beginners. “They are too hard 
to break in,” was the added comment. 

Just at the time, however, when she was most 
enthusiastic in her efforts to obtain employment 
Mildred’s relatives were surprised by a rather 
unexpected visit from her Aunt Mary’s sister-in- 
law from the “Windy City.” Like Mildred’s 
aunt, she was a widow also, but not being pos- 
sessed of such a plentiful store of this world’s 
goods, was compelled to lead the humble, unpre- 
tentious li/e of a modiste. She had one daughter 
who had recently embarked in the occupation of 
making “pot hooks and hangers,” and of whom 
she thought she had just reason to be proud. 
“She started in on six dollars,” she explained to 
Mildred, “and never had a day’s learning in her 
life above the eighth grade, and now draws ten. 


Thinking of Getting a Start. 


7 * 


Ah ! but she makes a fine appearance, too, espe- 
cially in her last hat — a Napoleon with two large 
plumes hanging over the back, looped a bit up 
from the front with a silver buckle. An’ she’s 
proud; the comer is full of last year’s shirt- 
waists — all old-fashioned,” she says. 

“Does she carry her lunch?” said Mildred’s 
little cousin, who had been drinking in the con- 
versation with open mouth. 

“Carry her lunch!” said the stout lady, 
straightening herself up. “Indeed, no. How 
could she among all those gentlemen. Oh 1 but 
if you could see the presents she gets — flowers 
and chocolates to no end. Indeed, and she could 
get one of the managers, too — easy ; but ’tis her- 
self that would not look at him. He is a widower ; 
rich, though ; two large fountains in his front 
yard and himself in the old country two months 
every year.” 

Mildred was beginning to think that her friend 
who was so zealous in her praises of the steno- 
graphic profession might be instrumental in help- 
ing her to get a place in Chicago should she fail 
in Grand Rapids, and she was about to give this 
thought expression, when she was asked rather 
abruptly what she was going to do if she did not 
find work in Grand Rapids. Can it be possible, 
Mildred, that your stout friend is a mind reader ? 


72 


Mildred McElroy. 


Mildred was not discouraged, however, for she 
had another friend in the city — a distant relative 
of her father’s, who was a “come-day-go-day” 
sort of a fellow, who took the greatest delight in 
helping his friends out of “a bad mess,” as he 
put it. “We will make friends,” he told her — 
“that’s the only way to get a job,” and immediate- 
ly extended her an invitation to his home, where 
his quiet little German wife and baby daughter 
were glad to receive her. 

The October days were warm and the sun 
shone brilliantly over her head when Mildred 
started out with her uncle on a labor-seeking ex- 
pedition. He seemed to have ideas of his own 
about getting work, one of which he put into 
effect by stopping before the huge stone building 
in which are kept the records of the county. He 
brought Mildred into the building, and seated 
her on a bench in one of the corridors where men 
stood discussing an important coming trial. He 
had some business to transact and he bade her 
wait for him in the meantime. 

Mildred did not remain here long, however, be- 
fore he returned with a lawyer whom he intro- 
duced to her as “Mr. G. ,” the attorney whom 

he met the year before when he was on the jury. 
The man’s hair was streaked with gray and he 
wore the inevitable blue suit. He informed Mil- 


Thinking of Getting a Start. 73 

dred pleasantly that he wanted a stenographer, 
and told her to call in at 2.00 P. M. Mildred’s 
relative was more than proud to think of her get- 
ting into a place so quickly, and he was with her 
again when she went to take the test at 2.00 P. 
M. The lawyer was not at the office that after- 
noon at the appointed time, and the associate at- 
torney informed them when they asked for Mr. 

G that he was not in, but that he did not 

know what he wanted of a stenographer, inas- 
much as he, himself, did all the typewriting. This 
made Mildred feel a little fearful, and she so ex- 
pressed her thoughts to her relative, but he only 
answered in tones which could not be heard in 
the adjoining room : “Don’t you let that fellow’s 
‘Boston talk’ make a ‘fiz’ on you.” 

It was not more than five minutes, however, be- 
fore the blue-coated, blue-vested, blue-trousered 
individual with the gray-streaked hair appeared. 
“I have so many clients waiting for me now,” he 
remarked, “that I cannot make the test. Come 
again to-morrow morning at 9 o’clock.” Mil- 
dred was there the next morning to take the test, 
which the old gentleman pronounced as “fine.” 
The only thing she thought strange about the 
deal was that he did not mention remuneration. 
She thought, though, that perhaps it was an over- 
sight — his being such a busy man would account 


74 Mildred McElroy. 

for his not being able to think of the stenog- 
rapher’s pay. 

But only a few days passed before Mildred 
learned that her employer was what was properly 
called “a dead beat.” He hired stenographers who 
wished to work “for the practice,” and if they re- 
mained with him longer than a week he quite fre- 
quently gave them a dollar. He was always able 
to find some student from the business college 
who was willing to work a few days for nothing, 
and in this way he always kept himself supplied 
with help. Mildred’s job, which seemed to her so 
glorious at first, would not “hold water.” How 
glad she was she had not written a letter to her 
mother about it — a letter which would have 
brought only disappointment. 

She had been with her aunt now two months, 
and felt heartbroken that she must return home. 
Her Aunt Mary sympathized with her, but told 
her it was her earnest belief that it would do her 
no good to look further. Yet, Mildred could not 
think that she had made a failure. 


CHAPTER XII. 


GOING TO “WINDY CITY.” 

Mildred was back in the old homestead sitting 
beside the kitchen fire, and Uncle Joe was saying: 
“Don’t you worry, Mildred, Liz was telling me 
the other day that she thought of going to Chi- 
cago to see if she could not find something to do. 
She’s hankerin’ for city life, and thinks she can 
get a situation there. An’ it’s true there’s a 
goodly lot of cler’cal places in that town if a 
body only knew how to get them.” 

The “Liz” referred to was a niece of Uncle 
Joe’s wife, an orphan girl, whose early life had 
been under the direction of an eccentric maiden 
aunt. Because of poor health for the last two 
years she had been compelled to live wherever 
she could find a relative who could utilize her 
services. From childhood she had loved music 
and when her aunt proposed sending her through 
an academy, she begged that she might take a 
musical course in a conservatory; but her aunt 
said she did not believe in a musical education, 
and insisted that if Lizzie studied her other aca- 
demic subjects well she would be fitted to attend 


;6 


Mildred McElroy. 


the Normal School or a Woman’s College, where 
she would be prepared to follow the profession of 
teaching, which would be an honor to all be- 
longing to her. Nevertheless, Liz pleaded still, 
saying that as she grew older, the harder it would 
be for her to learn music. The stern woman only 
remonstrated, however. “There is the old organ 
at home,” she said ; “the girl may practice on that 
in vacation, as I’ll not have a piano in the house, 
anyway.” Liz only sighed. She would lose the 
artistic touch she knew, which would make her 
a Rubenstein or a Liszt. How many nights she 
dreamed of playing a Sonata of Beethoven’s, or 
Schubert-Taussing’s Military March, but alas! 
she always played them wrong. Very often she 
would take the money which was sent her for 
necessities, and buy with it Histories of Music — 
if she could not have the practice she would have 
the theory. 

During the four years she attended the aca- 
demy she showed a deeply religious nature, and 
spent the hours set apart for diversion in deep, 
meditative thought. Many nights she sat by her 
window looking out upon the green lawns and 
well-tended flower-beds which surrounded the 
school buildings, but it was not to marvel at 
their beauty, for since they could not give Liz 
music they had for her lost their charm. 


Going to “Windy City.” 


77 


In the same month in which Lizzie graduated 
her aunt died, and when the orphan girl came to 
hear the last will and testament of this cold- 
hearted woman read, the young lawyer looked 
sympathizingly toward her before he summoned 
up enough courage to read the cold lines : “To 
Jane Simpson, my dearest and most beloved 
friend on earth, I leave my entire estate.” 

So this had been the outcome. Lizzie’s aunt 
had deceived her, persuading her to attend a 
boarding school, thereby unfitting her to work at 
a trade by which she could earn a livelihood; 
there was no prospect of going through a Wo- 
man’s College or Normal School now — nothing 
to do but face the world’s cold realities, and if it 
had not been for her frail strength she would not 
have minded it so much. 

Mildred hurried to see Lizzie the night Uncle 
Joe told her she thought of going to Chicago, and 
after some discussion it was decided that Lizzie 
would go first, but who to go to upon arrival 
was to them a problem. Lizzie had no friends in 
the city, but after some deliberation thought of 
the Y. W. C. A., on Michigan avenue. This she 
knew to be a respectable rooming and boarding- 
place for young women, and the rates Were rea- 
sonable. 

“I wish our clothes were better to go to a 


78 


Mildred McElroy. 


place like Chicago,” remarked Lizzie, “but we 
will manage in the best way we can. I will go 
a week before you do,” she continued, “and while 
I am at the Christian Association I will look up 
a room, for they have the names of numbers of 
parties who have accommodations to offer — some 
of them at quite reasonable rates.” 

On the twentieth of May she left. Mildred had 
remained with her all day, and now that Lizzie 
was bidding her good-bye, she assured her that 
all would be well. Two days later Mildred re- 
ceived a letter from her, in which she stated 
that she arrived safely, and upon visiting one of 
the shorthand schools was told there was a big 
field for women in stenography. 

Mildred’s delight was unbounded at the 
thought of obtaining employment in Chicago. 
Once there everything would go right ! 

“My child,” said her mother that afternoon, as 
they sat discussing Mildred’s future undertaking, 
“you do not know how it hurts me to have you 
leave ; not that I am fearful of your going out 
into the world, for I know that during these eigh- 
teen years of your life you have had a Christian 
training which has prepared you to meet bravely 
the trifling difficulties which may come in your 
way ; but it is because I cannot have you where 
you should be — in school. You do not know with 


Going to “Windy City.” 


79 


what a light heart I would help you to prepare 
your wardrobe to-night for Vassar, as I did my 
own so many years ago — that, my child, would 
give your mother joy. To see you thrown out, 
though, upon the tempestuous world that will not 
be considerate enough to even question why you 
are in it battling for bread, but perhaps will not 
be willing to admit that you are capable of earn- 
ing a livelihood, this to me is sorrow deep. In 
college, my child, you would be understood. 
Understood by men and women who never act 
except with deliberation. They would overlook 
your frailties in the hope that with womanhood 
you would lose them; but in the business world 
these defects which are always prone to childhood 
years would be magnified, and whether you will 
be able to overcome it all as a few noble people 
before you have done, your mother can only trust 
and pray.” 

Mildred left her mother’s side at twilight, and 
as she walked slowly down the lane she wondered 
how she could have thought her mother did not 
realize what was before her ; she wondered how 
she could have been so foolish as to think a wo- 
man who had had four years of college discipline 
did not know how the world looked on one with- 
out it. Mildred knew now that her mother had 
kept from her the worst, in the fear that it would 
blast her childish young ambitions. 


8o 


Mildred McElroy. 


She sat down to-night under the spreading elm 
tree near the old spring, and leaned her head 
upon her arm in the light of one long, still length- 
ening moonbeam, while she listened to the bobo- 
link’s notes, which grew weaker and weaker at 
each utterance. She wondered if she would ever 
be underneath this tree’s protecting shade again, 
and if all the fancies which she had so sweetly 
dreamed of here in days since past would be 
realities; and if when she came back for a few 
short days each year the rural people would say : 
“How she has changed.” 

But, Mildred, it is drawing near the time when 
you must act. The fond, alluring dreams of city 
life are terminating in a peaceful twilight on the 
farm. The whip-poor-will’s plaintive notes dis- 
turb the silence. One long, long look at the green 
landscape stretching out beyond — and then Mil- 
dred turned to go — for how long, she could not 
answer. That night, in the land of dreams, she 
built Fame Castles in a distant city, while she 
awaited the coming of another morrow. 

At the railway station the next morning the 
train drew a great breath before the door, and 
Uncle Joe gave Mildred a kiss and his blessing. 
From this part of Michigan to Chicago it is less 
than an eight-hour ride, and as it was now three 
o’clock in the afternoon, Chicago’s suburbs were 


Going to “Windy City. 


Si 


in sight. Through the window Mildred could 
see stenographers working in railroad freight 
offices and large manufacturing plants, and when 
she saw with what ease and rapidity these subur- 
ban artisans Were performing their work, she 
wondered what they were doing farther up — in 
the metropolis, the mighty concentration of labor 
and wealth in whose depths she knew she would 
soon be blindly groping her way. 

When Mildred alighted from the car she tried 
to walk as “cityfied” ^s she could in her skimped 
linen shirt-waist and cheap black skirt. The first 
thing she saw was her hands, which were piti- 
fully red-looking, and she wore no gloves. To 
add to her uncomely appearance her shoulders 
were slightly humped ; but Lizzie led her into the 
great waiting-room, where she told her the real 
situation. She explained that she had rented a 
room in a flat building on the north side of the 
city at eight dollars per month, as this was the 
cheapest she could find. She told Mildred that 
she could go to see an Employment Agency that 
afternoon, if she wished, and took from her 
pocketbook a clipping from the morning’s Tri- 
bune on which was the address of one ; but Mil- 
dred was tired and preferred to wait and make 
the trial the next day. They then boarded a 
Northwestern Elevated train. It was Mildred’s 
first glimpse of the “Prairie City.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


A STENOGRAPHIC BUREAU. 

Mildred was in Lizzie’s room, and while lunch 
was being prepared they talked of their prospects 
for obtaining employment. The room which 
Lizzie had taken was in a four-story flat building, 
and when Mildred looked about her and realized 
for the first time what it was not to have access 
“to a whole house,” she spoke of its being tucked 
up and could not see why the children playing 
contentedly in the alley down below did not die 
of consumption in a day; but Lizzie explained 
that she would get used to it all after a short 
time. Mildred was perfectly familiar with the 
style of housekeeping for which she and Lizzie 
had equipped themselves, which was known as 
“boarding yourself.” She did not look upon it 
with such apprehension as do city people who 
term it “light housekeeping,” for she had known 
the girls at home to do it when attending the 
Normal School for eight months in the year and, 
therefore, was not fearful of the undertaking. 

“You remember that school on Washington 
street which I spoke to you about in my letter,” 


A Stenographic Bureau. 


83 


said Lizzie, when they sat down to the table. 
“Now, he has a stenographic bureau connected 
with it, run by his wife. She takes in foreign 
students, or advanced students from anywhere, 
and lets them work with her; then they place 
them in positions and do not have to pay unless 
you get the place. You can see, ,, she continued, 
laughing, “it is nothing more or less than a post- 
graduate course in shorthand. He has quite a 
cheap course in bookkeeping, too, but I think I 
will wait and see how you get on before I at- 
tempt to do that. He says there is more preju- 
dice against women bookkeepers in Chicago than 
there is in the East, and I would be a little afraid 
to risk much money until I would be sure of get- 
ting something.” 

The next morning Mildred left with Lizzie to 
make her first real business trip in Chicago. They 
boarded the Northwestern Elevated at Sedg- 
wick street and North avenue, and as Lizzie had 
forgotten the nearest station at which to get off 
it was not until the train had become cleared of 
people, and they found the guards looking very 
strangely at them, that they concluded they had 
better get off at Madison street and Fifth ave- 
nue, and with the aid of a map of the city and 
the directions of a policeman, reached the short- 
hand school, which was on the twelfth floor of 


84 Mildred McElroy. 

one of the many office buildings on Washington 
street. 

When they got off the elevator they were met 
by a number of boys and girls, whose ages ranged 
from fifteen to eighteen; all were carrying red- 
lined note-books, an assortment of pencils, a spell- 
ing-book and a small green manual on Pitman 
Phonography. Mildred and Lizzie followed them 
down the hall, and entered a room which was 
marked over the door: “Stenographic Bureau.” 
The wife of the principal of the school conducted 
this, and she referred them to the next room, 
where her husband was registering students. Mil- 
dred told him of the work she had had; of the 
system of shorthand which she wrote; of what 
she thought she was able to do, and then the 
contract was drawn up in which was specified: 
“You do not have to pay tuition unless you get a 
position.” 

The work of this stenographic bureau was fur- 
nished mainly by the occupants of the large build- 
ing in which it was located. Lawyers, physicians, 
architects, real estate men, and all those who had 
no regular stenographer brought their work 
there, and the student was set at accomplishing 
the task. Mildred was somewhat discouraged at 
first, and did not do very good work. She imag- 
ined that everybody else could run a machine 


A Stenographic Bureau. 


85 


faster than she could, and was sure they could 
write shorthand faster, even though it was on 
practiced matter. 

The second day after her arrival another for- 
eign student put in his appearance, and was as- 
signed to a desk immediately behind Mildred. 
When the noon hour came Mildred was indis- 
posed to leave the room, inasmuch as she had 
heard of no position, which fact had tended to 
make her downhearted. Leaving her own desk, 
she went to the window, and upon returning to 
it, found the newly-initiated student in quite as 
disappointed an attitude as she was herself. 

“Do you not eat lunch?” he asked. 

“Sometimes,” replied Mildred, “but I do not 
care much about doing it to-day. I am quite out 
of patience with this place. How did you ever 
come to find the school out?” 

“Oh, I came here from New Orleans; saw 
their ‘ad.’ in the Tribune, and thought it would 
be a pretty good place to stay until I got an in- 
sight into how things were running. Fve had a 
year’s experience, so their work is not doing me 
any good.” 

“I’ve had only a few weeks,” said Mildred, 
“but have taken advantage of the situation to 
raise it to a year.” 

“Well, there is no wrong in doing that, as I 


86 


Mildred McElroy. 


intend to magnify mine to two or three years. I 
want to study law, and if I could get into a law 
office would be much better satisfied. I think there 
is a big chance here in Chicago to do Court re- 
porting, and that makes the road to law easy.” 

“Why could I not do the same thing? I want 
to go on to school more, but will have to do as 
much studying as I can while I work.” 

“I do not know any reason why you could not 
be a lawyer, for I know several women in New 
Orleans who are. They are married to lawyers, 
but I do not know any reason why a woman could 
not practice alone if she had push. I intend to 
investigate matters, however, and any informa- 
tion that I can get I will give to you. If I do not 
get anything out of this place this week I am 
going to quit; but you have not told me your 
name.” 

“Mildred McElroy.” 

“You are Scotch. My name is Charles Fon- 
tebrau, and you can guess I’m French. I am a 
descendant of the Arcadian people, and can trace 
my lineage back to the beautiful Evangeline.” 
This boy had a frank way which much attracted 
Mildred, and his enthusiasm lightened her load 
considerably. She was glad to tell Lizzie to-night 
of her new friend, for she was sure he would be 
able to work some way out of the “scrape” into 


A Stenographic. Bureau. 


87 


which she had gotten. Mildred remained until 
Saturday of that week, and in the meantime 
Charles Fontebrau told her of his plans to leave 
and go to the Remington typewriter office, where 
stenographers went, he said, and bid on jobs just 
as men do on goods at an auction. Mildred had 
never heard of this place before, but she con- 
curred with Charles Fontebrau in the opinion that 
they would get a place far sooner from there than 
from the Stenographic Bureau. 

But Mildred had not yet given an Employ- 
ment Agency a trial, and had they not promised 
to give her a “square deal?” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

AN EMPLOYMENT AGENCY. 

Mildred went out on North avenue before go- 
ing down town the next morning, and bought a 
Tribune. Turning to the employment column she 
read one of those long “ads,” so full of promise ; 
so enticing to the stranger : 

PERMANENT POSITIONS SECURED FOR 
LADIES— CALL. 


Stenographers $15 

Bookkeepers $15 

Cashiers $ 9 

Demonstrators $18 

Typewriters $ 8 

Addressers $ 7 


GUARANTEE AGENCY. DEARBORN ST. 

ROOM — . 

Long before Mildred came to Chicago she had 
put a good deal of trust in these so-called “har- 
bingers of hope.” She had even written a letter 
to one of them and received a satisfactory answer 
to the effect that if she was able to fill a $40 job, 
“Come on.” The only request that was made 


An Employment Agency. 89 

was a $1 bill and that, to be sure, w^s freely 
sent. 

But she was right in the building now where 
it was located, and had the name and number, 

No. 930 M ’s Mercantile Agency. She asked 

the elevator man to make sure that she was in 
the right building, and she could not see why 
the other individuals in the elevator cage should 
look at her so wistfully. She was unable to com- 
prehend why they should pity her for being right 
at the door of one of the greatest “position get- 
ters” in Chicago. 

The ninth floor — over the door in large letters 
was written the name of the Agency. Mildred 
opened the door upon an uncarpeted room, devoid 
of furniture, except for a few chairs ranged 
about it for the comfort of the applicants. At 
the further end was the clerk's desk, and Mildred 
moved nearer and asked her for an application 
blank. Near by the table at which the woman sat 
was a small one containing a large heap of these 
blanks, and to this one she directed Mildred. 
“What a large number of positions they must 
fill,” thought Mildred, as she proceeded to answer 
all the questions on the paper very carefully ; but 
unfortunately she spoiled her work, which neces- 
sitated her going back to the woman for a new 
blank. “Oh ! just let it go as it is,” said the clerk, 


99 Mildred McElroy. 

“so long as it is readable, that is all we care 
about/’ and Mildred little thought that the appli- 
cation she was troubling herself about would 
never be looked at. 

This young woman was one of the most suc- 
cessful promoters of employment agency fakes, 
although Mildred did not know this — neither 
could she be expected to. A look was imprinted 
on her face which might be called “discriminat- 
ing” — discriminating in what it would be hard 
to say. Her mop of tow-colored hair was neatly 
combed back from a brow of medium height ; her 
eyes were a trifle magnetic, and a sort of diaboli- 
cal smile played over her hard, matured features. 
Her gray skirt fitted her smartly, and her dimity 
waist, with its band of white at her throat, made 
her look business-like, and yet did not destroy 
her femininity. She was busily employed giving 
out positions to all classes of girls. Many were 
chided by her because they did not learn to run 
the kind of machine which the position she had 
in hand called for. Stock-yard places, no one 
wanted to fill, for when a supposed call from 
Swift or Armour came up, some one of the best 
applicants always lived on the North Side, “and 
mamma could not endure to have me so far away 
from home — away over there among the cattle 
pens out of civilization!” The Employment 


An Employment Agency. 


9i 


Agency’s clerk told younger applicants gently 
that they would have to remove their short skirts 
if they expected to do justice to whom she had 
which she sent them. Those to whom she had 
dropped cards on the day previous with no nota- 
tion save “Please call,” hurried breathlessly to 
her desk, but with a calmness in her eye which 
bespoke firmness, she said : “Girlie, you are too 
late.” 

Behind her desk, and to the east side, was a 
larger desk occupied by a gray-haired individual, 
who was the proprietor and manager. He did 
not interfere with any of the applicants, but was 
very busy attending to the answering of the little 
instrument within the telephone booth near him. 
Frequently, too, his answers were in the form of 
extended conversations. 

At last Mildred handed in her application blank 
and the clerk said “correct,” with her genuine 
firmness. Clearing her throat, she continued: 
“Now, listen ; I have a nice position here for you, 
paying $40.00 per month. Now, dearie, be sure 
and get it — don’t fail us !” Quietly she wrote out 
the mysterious paper, put it in an addressed enve- 
lope and sealed it. 

To a sooty building given over to chemical 
and mechanical concerns — this is where Mildred’s 
envelope led her. She climbed the long stairs in 


92 


Mildred McElroy. 


the dirt-pervaded building, whose atmosphere 
hardly allowed her to breathe, and asked an office 
boy if she was on the right floor. “You will find 
the manager in the room down the hall” answered 
the boy, and when Mildred entered the room 
she was confronted by a man with a dark, swarthy 
face, and whose hair was slickly parted back from 
a low brow. He talked very low, and when he 
spoke to Mildred after reading the paper inside 
the envelope, he said: “Go back to the Agency 
early to-morrow morning, and if I decide to take 
you I will notify them.” He made no further re- 
marks, and then bowed her out of the room. 

When Mildred reached home she, of course, re- 
lated to Lizzie every detail. On the following 
morning Lizzie advised her not to return to the 
Agency, but to the firm, and tell them she did 
not want the place. The manager appeared to be 
surprised the next morning when Mildred told 
him she did not think it would be best to accept 
the promising job. In a moment, however, he 
drew a long sigh, after which he said : “ Well, 

I’m just as glad you did not take it. The Agency 
has great trouble in supplying us with the right 
kind of operators; we have had several of them 
here on trial, and none could do the work satis- 
factorily, and I’m afraid you’d be just the same. 
Our last girl had done work in science in the 


An Employment Agency. 93 

Chicago University under professors, and she 
even was ‘floored’ by the chemical terms.” 

Now the Employment Agency did not charge a 
registration fee, but simply asked to be given 
the first week’s salary, and how they could make 
any money when they lived up to such a contract 
as this had always been a problem to Mildred; 
but she saw now that if she had taken the place 
to which she had assigned her, she would have 
filled it one week, and out of this salary the 
Agency would have received $5.00, allowing the 
firm who co-operated with them the remainder. 
This, indeed, would be a good profit, providing 
they sent a new stenographer every week, instead 
of whenever a vacancy happened, as they had in- 
sinuated. 

Mildred did not find Chicago jobs such easy 
“getting.” It took harder pulling than a tip to 
an Employment Agency. 


CHAPTER XV. 


A TYPEWRITER EMPLOYMENT OFFICE. 

WE CAN SEND YOU STENOGRAPHER, 
BRIGHT STUDENT 
OR EXPERIENCED. 

R- TYPEWRITER COMPANY. 

Mildred’s failure to reap beneficial results from 
the Employment Agency did not discourage her 
in the least, and she now resolved to try and get 
a position from one of the largest typewriter em- 
ployment agencies in Chicago. 

To the reader who has never been in any one 
of our large cities, particularly Chicago or New 
York, the description of a typewriter employment 
office will be of little interest; but he who has 
lived, or now lives, in any metropolitan city, will, 
indeed, be appreciative; for the typewriter ex- 
change is sure to have been a factor in the life of 
every young man or woman who has entered the 
stenographic arena. When the course in the busi- 
ness college has been finished, they turn their eyes 
longingly toward the humble corner set apart for 
them in the great office and spend perhaps months 


A Typewriter Employment Office. 95 

in the hope of obtaining a situation through its 
aid. 

In the further end of the building in which 
the machine company I mention was located, was 
“The Employment Department,” at the upper end 
of which was a door which opened into the man- 
ager’s office, but the stenographers were not al- 
lowed to enter by this door. The placard at the 
top forbade it: “Stenographers must enter by 
the other door.” The small office was encircled 
by a row of benches, and here the stenographers 
sat while they waited for “calls.” A large bulle- 
tin hung over the manager’s desk, which read : 
“Calls will be read at 9.00 A. M. ; 11.00 A. M. ; 
12.00 A. M. ; 2.00 P. M., and 3.00 P. M. Begin- 
ners’ applications taken.” 

For the manager of a department his desk was 
very bare, there being nothing on it except a few 
blanks, two or three pens and pencils and a few 
sheets of the company’s paper. The telephone 
hung conveniently near him, through which me- 
dium he received notifications of positions for ap- 
plicants. He chewed gum vigorously in order 
that he might relieve the strain under which he 
was laboring, and perhaps check the annoyance 
which he felt at seeing the long, woe-begone faces 
of the many girls out of employment. 

The class of individuals with whom he dealt 


Mildred McElrdy. 


96 

was, indeed, varied. There were stenographers 
who came here who had had years of experience 
— so long that they had become ashamed of the 
fact ; then there were some whose experience had 
not been enough to substantiate what they were 
capable of doing, and they were constantly trying 
to make their few months appear like an object 
under a microscope; and, lastly, the beginner, 
who is always ready to offer her services for lit- 
tle or nothing, “just to get a start.” 

Some of the young women come gaily dressed, 
with hats adorned with plumes or gardens of 
flowers, and skirts with long trains ; but the ste- 
nographers did this, believing, as they told their 
co-laborers who did not sanction it, “They look 
a lot at dress and appearance.” It would appear, 
though, that all these applicants possessed a good- 
ly amount of patience, for they would take the 
slip which the Employment manager would give 
them and would walk away down the long aisle 
with all the meekness Of a Sister of Mercy. 

Sometimes the girls described their experiences 
while they sat waiting for the “calls” to come off, 
and it would be at these times that one could 
catch a bit Occasionally of their most edifying con- 
versations. The older and more reserved ones 
would not talk much, preferring to preserve quiet 
until they should get back at “the old stand” 


A Typewriter Employment Office. 97 

again. The younger ones, however, were more 
sociable, and kept up among themselves a con- 
tinuous chatter. 

“How much experience have you had?” one 
would say to another. 

“Oh, I’ve had two years.” 

“Well, you ought to be able to get a pretty 
good job.” 

“Oh, I don’t know; sometimes it’s not easy. 
One manager refused me the other day on the 
grounds that my recommendations were not suf- 
ficient.” 

“Well, you certainly had a lot of push that you 
couldn’t get up and tell him to give an account of 
himself ; those recommendations are only a bogus 
to see how much ‘pull’ you got. I know a man 
who’ll give a recommendation to anyone ; he will 
put his name to any document in the shape of 
praising you up.” 

“Yes,” broke in another stenographer of seven 
or eight years’ experience, five of which had been 
in one of Booth’s packing houses, “that’s just it; 
I know six men who’ll do that same thing.” 

“But some of the managers are terribly unrea- 
sonable,” said a third girl. “The typewriter peo- 
ple sent me to one place the other day, and the 
manager gave me a test, and when I got through 
he told me I worked as if I had lock-jaw; this 


g8 Mildred McElroy. 

was too much for me, and I just up and slapped 
him.” 

“Well, I never make a show of myself like 
that; besides, it does not do any good. But 
what are those girls doing? They are pushing. up ; 
if we don’t get to the front we’ll lose our chance.” 

There was a flurry for a few moments, while 
the young women got in line before the manager’s 
railing, and then order was called for the 9.00 
A. M. “call.” 

The Employment manager is speaking : “Now, 
can’t we get a young lady who will go to the 
‘Yards?’ A fifteen dollar job at the stock-yards — 
anybody want it?” 

“Well, I just won’t go to the stock-yards,” said 
one applicant, rather advanced in years. “The 
smell is so strong no one can stay, and they work 
you to death. If you want it,” she remarked to 
a diminutive young woman beside her, “chase up 
there ; now’s your chance.” 

“An eighteen dollar job in a law office ; one of 
the best law offices on Washington street. Good 
opportunity to do court reporting. Who wants 
this?” 

“Oh! those lawyers,” commented the stout 
lady again. “Can’t never get your pay out o’ 
them. Most skinching class in town — and as for 
doing court work, ‘hum,’ there ain’t a lawyer or a 


A Typewriter Employment Office. 99 

judge in the city of Chicago who will give a 
woman the taking of testimony in a dog post- 
mortem ; too busy keeping their sons-in-law — no, 
that’s not for me; but, here,” she exclaimed, 
reaching back a little for a lame boy on crutches, 
“you’ve had law work ; push up there 1” 

“Mr. H., Mr. H.”, cried the stout lady vocifer- 
ously, “is it law work?” 

No answer. 

After shouting for the third and last time: 
“Mr. H., is it law work?” the manager answered 
in a high-pitched voice : “Board of Trade.” 

Miss M then being satisfied that she would 

not be tormented by the lawyers, extended her 
broad palm and in stentorian tones which chilled 
all other aspirants about her, announced that she 
would take it, adding, in a firm voice : “I’ve had 
11 years and 8 months’ experience;” and, inas- 
much as thirty minutes later sounds of her voice 
came through the telephone, as she poured into 
the ears of the Employment Manager details of 
the victory she had gained by getting some firm 
by the neck, and choking them into employing a 
stenographer, her sister stenographers knew she 
would not be in the Employment Office for some 
time to come. 

Since Mildred had been frequenting this place 
she had met again that interesting boy, whose 


L of C. 


100 


Mildred McElroy. 


society she enjoyed so much during her short 
stay in the stenographic bureau. ‘‘He was hang- 
ing out,” as he termed it, looking for something 
which would suit him; “for boys,” he told her, 
“put up the ‘bluff’ that they were more indepen- 
dent, and would not work for such low wages 
as girls. After a few trials he got the offer of a 
place in a railroad office at $10 per week, and told 
Mildred not to take less than this either as a 
parting warning. She did not feel capable, 
though, to earn as much yet, and, therefore, took 
an eight dollar position in a real estate office on 
La Salle street. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


DISCHARGED. 

G. W. & Co., second floor, R. Bldg. 

Mildred was at the door of a large real estate 
firm, and was met by a fat man vigorously en- 
deavoring to set the air in motion with a palm 
fan. He looked a moment at the paper which 
she handed him, and then said : “How much ex- 
perience have you had?” 

“One year in law.” 

“Well, if you’ve had law work you can do 
this work easily enough ; it is nothing but plain 
correspondence. This is only a temporary posi- 
tion,” he added. “Our stenographer is in the 
East; there is just a possibility of its being per- 
manent. Have you had lunch?” 

Mildred replied — “Yes,” although she had had 
none, and had no intention of getting any. 

“Come back, say, in half an hour, and I’ll put 
you on a machine; if you pass the Remington, 
you might step in and tell them you are going to 
work here this afternoon, so they’ll not be sending 
us anyone else.” 

Mildred returned to the Typewriter office, and 


102 


Mildred McElroy. 


when the Employment Manager saw her in the 
door he sung out: “Did you get that job, Miss 
McElroy? Well, you want to keep it, for they 
are the best firm in Chicago of their kind.” 

i. oo o’clock, and Mildred was ready for busi- 
ness ; the same old bluffy fat man received her, 
and motioned her to follow him down the aisle. 

“Are you used to taking dictation from dif- 
ferent people?” he asked, as he stopped before 
a No. 6 Remington. “There are five or six par- 
ties here who will dictate to you, but you will 
get accustomed to that after awhile, as the boys 
are very congenial.” 

Mildred sat down to her desk, and presently 
a lease was dictated. Her slight knowledge of 
law forms enabled her to do it well, yet she was 
nervous. A few letters were given her during the 
afternoon, which she took down with great pre- 
cision and thought she got them right, at least, 
she tried to; but her experience had been shal- 
low. She lacked those little attainments which 
go to make up a good stenographer. She took 
dictation rapidly enough; her notes were well 
formed, but she misunderstood. She was not ac- 
customed to the phraseology of a metropolitan 
city. It was the first large office she had ever 
work in, yet — she must succeed. 

When Mildred handed in her letters that after- 


Discharged. 


103 

noon the young man to whom she gave them 
found she had mixed up one or two, but only 
said: “Never mind, leave them in your desk and 
we will fix them up to-morrow. I have not 
hardly the time to-night.” He looked at her quiz- 
zically, and Mildred could not see why there was 
a look of pity on his face, unless it was because 
she was so determined, working alone in the great 
city in her shabby clothes. 

She looked across the way at the expanse of 
elegantly furnished La Salle offices, and could 
not help but be thankful for her good fortune. 
She wrote home and told her mother of her suc- 
cess. She even told her more than it was; she 
exaggerated, so desirous was she of soothing the 
anxious woman’s troubled heart. And then there 
was dear Lizzie waiting at home. Mildred could 
not wait for her to open the door that night, and 
rushing into the room, exclaimed: “I’ve got a 
place in one of the largest real estate offices in 
Chicago.” 

When Saturday morning came Mildred hoped 
that the girl who left her place vacant would not 
return. The office boy had told her Friday he 
did not think she would have to leave — and what 
a stroke of luck this had been! The last thing 
she told Lizzie on leaving was that she would 
have her eight dollars. She went away in re- 
markably good spirits. 


104 


Mildred McElroy. 


It was rtow 12.30 o’clock, and the cashier came 
to Mildred’s desk and said: “Miss McElroy,” 
and laid down an envelope containing eight dol- 
lars. But Mildred had not been given much work 
during the morning, and something seemed to 
tell her that matters did not go right. The mana- 
ger, who apparently had so much sympathy for 
her, had gone away earlier than usual, and she 
wondered at this; another aggressive one who 
had habitually dictated letters to her, had gone 
to another stenographer’s desk with his mail ; an- 
other one asked her to write out an “ad” for 
the Tribune, and to be sure to get it straight on 
the lined paper ; and, of course, she did not get it 
right. He laughed, although he tried not to let 
her see him in the act, and merely took it, re- 
marking: “It will do.” Her face burned. She 
was agitated. She knew it was her last day in 
the great real estate firm on La Salle street. 

Then the fat director who met her the first day 
came slowly to her desk, every rib in his body 
shaking. He stopped abruptly only for a moment 
while he said: “I guess we’ll not need you any 
more, Miss McElroy.” 

Mildred’s face paled. “Why, is the other ste- 
nographer coming back ?” she ventured to query. 

“Yes, I guess she is,” he replied, and to avoid 
further comment left her. 


Discharged. 


105 


Still Mildred could not think she was really 
discharged. She thought if they would say her 
work here for a week had been satisfactory it 
would help her. She would go to the corpulent 
director and ask him. 

“Well,” was the curt answer, “the boys tell 
me that you’re not accurate. You see, it makes 
a great deal of difference when a man gives you a 
letter and says ‘Milwaukee avenue,’ and you put it 
down ‘Michigan.’ Of course,” he continued, “I 
could say you worked here for a week, but would 
decline to comment on the quality of work done 
in that week.” 

“They have telephoned for another stenog- 
rapher,” thought Mildred, “and the Remington 
people will now know I’ve been discharged.” She 
did not know how she got away, but found her- 
self climbing the stairs of the Northwestern Ele- 
vated at the Quincy street station. 

It was Saturday afternoon — the half-holiday. 
Gaily dressed girls carrying bunches of flowers 
stood on the platform ; men and boys in duck suits 
and spotless linen. To Mildred no one seemed 
troubled. She alone bore the burden of the day. 
She laid her head back on the seat in despair, 
and then she remembered that letter which she 
had written to her mother in the morning. She 
had forgotten to bring it with her, and they would 


io6 Mildred McElroy. 

read it, she knew, after she was gone and laugh 
over her presumption and self-conceit: 

“Dear Mother: 

“I am getting along nicely. Have been so for- 
tunate as to get into this place. I will have a good 
opportunity to work up my shorthand here, for I 
can study nights and take lectures and sermons, 
and after a cOuple of years will stand a pretty 
good chance of getting into the courts. I cannot 
help but be thankful. They have not complained 
of my work so far, and I do not think they will. 
I do not have many letters to write. Business is 
over this afternoon at one o’clock, and I have 
earned my eight dollars. Will write you again 
Monday. Mildred.” 

But you need not worry, Mildred, they have 
never read it, for the manager who sympathized 
so much with you saw you write it, and has put 
it away where no one will ever read the earnest, 
simple words, wishing it were in his power to 
substantiate your childish perseverance and earn- 
est faith. 

And now Mildred’s heart beat faster as she 
thought of Lizzie waiting so anxiously at home 
for her. When she opened the door, a smile was 
on her face, and she had a little lunch waiting. 
She had bought a few luxuries because she 
thought Mildred would get her week’s pay to- 
day. 


Discharged. 


107 


Mildred could not bear her trouble alone. Her 
young heart yearned for sympathy and she threw 
herself at Lizzie’s feet, and wringing her hands 
with all the anguish of her heart, said : “I have 
been discharged.” Lizzie felt it, and tried in vain 
to soothe her, but she was heartbroken. 

“Do not do it, dear,” she said, “it hurts me to 
see you look so — your face is so white and worn. 
Why do you act so, child? We must do the best 
we can.” 

But Mildred only answered : “I am weary look- 
ing for better things ; I thought it was all over.” 

“My child,” said Lizzie, “you would not want 
to go back home. Think of your mother; you 
will work for her sake. There are times in all 
our lives when we feel like giving up — it is a 
test of our better self when we have the resistance 
not to yield.” 

Something just then fell with an undulating 
cadence upon Mildred’s troubled ear. It was the 
chime of the evening church-bells ringing out 
their matin to announce a service in the Episco- 
pal Church. Turning to Lizzie, she said: “It 
will relieve me to go.” 

“Let not your heart be troubled : Ye believe in 
God, believe also in me. I will not leave you 
comfortless. I will come to you.” 

Mildred knew then her heart was troubled 


io8 Mildred McElroy. 

when it should not be. She thought herself com- 
fortless when she was not. The white-robed 
choir, too, was singing: “What a friend we 
have in Jesus.” 

A renewed hope burned in her heart, and go- 
ing back to Lizzie, she threw herself at her feet 
and said : “I will begin again ; I will be strong 
and determined.” 

And what has made you do it, Mildred? Was 
it that short hour of prayer? In your future life 
there will be battles of distress deeper than this 
one — your first on the threshold of the beginning 
of your life. You will need His comfort. May 
you always ask it! No other friend can console 
you so well. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


FIRST SUCCESS. 

The Remington Typewriter, Mildred knew, 
was not the only machine in Chicago, but her only 
objection to leaving it was that she was not as 
proficient on others as she was on this one. After 
some investigation, however, she found another 
typewriter exchange on Monroe street, whose 
machine was the “Underwood.” In these ma- 
chine companies applicants are allowed to prac- 
tice on typewriters if they wish for some time 
every day, and Mildred, therefore, took advan- 
tage of this opportunity and worked earnestly 
for a week or two. The Underwood Typewriter 
had some first-class positions and after some 
time, when Mildred asked as to whether there 
had been any calls, the boy answered that he had 
one which he could let her have — a half-day job 
paying $5 per week in a law office in the Rookery 
Building. Mildred was very glad to get this, as 
she knew it would give her a chance to secure 
something permanent during the time she was 
working there. The place would be open a month 
and she reasoned that this would be quite a long 
while in the way of looking up a position. 


no Mildred McElroy. 

She took the elevator in one of those buildings 
which is devoted to the aristocracy of the law, 
real estate, insurance, etc. The office was on the 
third floor at the end of the hall, and as she 
walked toward it she felt a thrill of pride in her 
first step on mosaic. Her card read: “No. 354,” 
which brought her before the entrance of a hand- 
somely furnished suite of offices. 

In the large room in front there was the tele- 
phone booth, many cases of law books, the ste- 
nographer’s desk, letter files, letter press, etc. 
Mildred handed her card to a young woman with 
bushy blonde hair, who bowed her into a chair 
superciliously. “Yes, they want a stenographer 
while I am on my vacation,” she said; “I get a 
month, and need it, too, for I am worked to 

death. Mr. C. attends to the hiring, and if 

you will just be seated a few moments he will 
be in directly.” 

Presently a young attorney appeared in the 
door, and after giving a courteous nod to the ste- 
nographer, went straightway to his private office. 
He was typical of the young, well educated so- 
ciety-seeking Chicago lawyer. His features were 
clear cut, his forehead broad and high, and he 
carried his head with a dignified poise. He wore 
a blue suit of the most costly material, which, 
with its box coat and baggy trousers, was most 


First Success. 


hi 


becoming. In his hand he carried a straw hat 
and a black silk umbrella whose folds adhered so 
closely to the handle that one might think its 
diameter no more than that of a pin. The ste- 
nographer took Mildred’s note to him, and then 
beckoned her into his office. 

The attorney looked at her pleasantly and said : 
“Miss McElroy.” He asked her something as to 
her work and experience ; told her the work would 
be mainly correspondence, as court was not in ses- 
sion. “It will not take more than the forenoon in 
which to do it,” he added; “come down at half- 
past eight to-morrow morning,” and this was the 
last Mildred saw of the blonde girl, mosaic floors 
and huge piles of law books until the morrow. 
How anxious she was to reach home in order that 
Lizzie might know of her good success. 

Mildred went promptly to her work the next 
day, and when she arrived was met by another 
attorney, who kindly opened her desk for her and 
bade her get accustomed to her new surround- 
ings. Outside of a few letters, at writing which 
she could take her time, and a few legal forms 
of a similar nature, this was all she had to do, 
and was readily convinced that she would be 
able to fill the place for this short time satisfac- 
torily. 

But Lizzie had not yet found work, although 


112 


Mildred McElroy. 


she had exhausted every effort to find employ- 
ment. She watched the papers and answered ad- 
vertisements until she was heartsick. Tuition was 
so high in the business college that she could 
hardly afford to attend it to do any work in book- 
keeping. Mildred would gladly have given her 
the money, but the little she earned hardly suf- 
ficed to keep them ; yet Lizzie had hopes. 

One night, however, when Mildred returned 
from work she saw Lizzie sitting by the window 
reading a letter, and from the earnest way in 
which she looked at it Mildred knew it must be of 
some importance. Lizzie hesitated before she 
told her she was going to marry the attorney who 
sympathized with her so much when he read the 
last document to which her aunt ever signed her 
name. She did not tell Mildred just how this 
courtship happened, but Mildred had read these 
lines at the end of the letter : “You can indulge in 
music now to your heart’s content.” 

Before Lizzie left she arranged for Mildred 
to leave the tenement flat in which they had been 
staying since their arrival in Chicago, and se- 
cured a more comfortable home for her in the 
suburbs with people whom she knew would be in- 
terested in her. Still, she was worried as to Mil- 
dred’s future, and wondered much as to whether 
she thought she would be able to get another po- 


First Success. 


ii3 

sition ; but Mildred relieved her mind by assuring 
her she knew she would have no difficulty in doing 
so. But the question uppermost in the struggling, 
ambitious girl’s mind was, “Will I ?” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

IN A LAW OFFICE. 

When the crooked marks can be written upon 
paper with a fair degree of swiftness and the first 
office position secured, the ambitious individual 
begins to think about preparing himself for the 
next important step — Court Reporting. Usually 
his first work is in a law office. These offices do 
not pay as well as mercantile ones, as a rule, but 
the aspirant does not care for this, so long as it 
brings him nearer to the coveted goal. When 
working for attorneys he will become familiar 
with law terms, the filing of papers, serving 
(legal) papers, etc., and if he be fortunate 
enough to be with unprejudiced employers, he 
will get an opportunity once in a while to fre- 
quent the halls of justice and “take at” testimony. 

It is not strange, then, to know that Mildred 
was directing her efforts toward this line of 
work. Many told her that her speed might never 
reach the height which is necessary in order to 
catch the words which flow from the mouth of 
silver-tongued barristers; but she did not give 
this even credence. There was nothing she 


In a Law Office. 


115 

thought but what she could accomplish. She 
was sure to be at the top, for no one, she firmly 
believed, ever failed to get there who had the 
slightest desire to go. 

She knew, too, that Court Reporting in the 
city of Chicago is not controlled as it is at home — 
appointments made by the Governor upon the 
recommendation of the Circuit Judge after the 
applicant has undergone a difficult competitive 
examination. Here, if the stenographer contem- 
plates taking up Law Reporting, he endeavors to 
get as many friends in the legal profession as is 
possible ; rents an office in one of the large build- 
ings and has painted on the door : “Court Sten- 
ographer.” He then waits for lawyers to solicit 
his services in court, and if he does his work so 
well that they return a second time it is his own 
reward. 

Before Mildred’s four weeks were over she 
began to look for another place. She went to the 
Typewriter Exchange every day at noon-time, 
and when a call from a law office paying $6 per 
week presented itself, she was immediately seized 
with the fever to secure it. 

She was accepted and was to begin work the 
next Monday. This she thought fortunate, for 
her time in the temporary place which she had 
been filling would expire the following Saturday. 


n6 Mildred McElroy. 

She had filled this vacancy well, and had not had 
much to worry her; yet, she realized the subor- 
dinacy of her position, as does every other sten- 
ographer who has ever served her apprenticeship 
in temporary places, for in what more effective 
way could the employer show her this than by 
remarking to callers as he usually does : “Our 
stenographer is on her vacation.” 

And this was Saturday afternoon, and Mil- 
dred’s predecessor had arrived. She announced 
her coming by simply standing in the door and 
gazing at the machine; nor did she speak. She 
only passed down the room, stopping at the dif- 
ferent private offices, tapping the carpet with the 
toe of her shoe or the end of her umbrella as she 
walked. She spoke with each attorney, telling 
him how rested she was by being away from “civ- 
ilization” for a while, and then looking down 
toward Mildred’s desk, remarked: “Are you not 

glad, Mr. , that you’ve not had to put up 

with her for more than a month? Oh, no. I’ll 
not hurry myself. Will be down Monday.’* 

These are the parting words of the stenog- 
rapher whose place Mildred had filled for the last 
four weeks. 

The lawyer for whom she went to work was 
engaged in the real estate business as well as the 
law. Mildred had cherished the idea that she 


In a Law Office. 


ii 7 

would not have to do very hard work, as the 
remuneration was not heavy ; that her hours 
would be reasonable, and she would thus be en- 
abled after a year to begin to study law in some 
one of the law schools having night courses. She 
thought a law degree would assist her mater- 
ially were she a Court reporter, by enabling her 
to do her work in a way which would demon- 
strate it as superior to others. 

Now, Mr. Le Grosse, the attorney by whom 
Mildred was employed, was French, and unfor- 
tunately retained much of the French accent, 
which made it difficult to understand him. Fie 
was a graduate from one of the French univer- 
sities, and a well learned man in general. Re- 
verses, however, as the old story goes, had left 
him with little money to grace his position in life. 
His apparel, as a consequence, was not as elab- 
orate as he would have liked to have it, and the 
social requirements of his profession necessitated 
so much expenditure that he had little left to in- 
dulge upon it. 

Mildred did not know, though, that she was 
laboring under a wrong impression of her em- 
ployer. She thought him to be so engrossed in 
his work that he would think of her only indiffer- 
ently. She was determined, however, to tell him 
of her desire to study law. She thought he would 


n8 


Mildred McElroy. 


be so interested when he learned that he had such 
a progressive stenographer. 

“But why do you think of studying law ?” was 
his interrogation when Mildred told him her 
plans. “You are unsophisticated yet and lack 
those little qualities which the newsboy possesses 
— that is, in the way of taking care of yourself. 
It seems to me you are the most uneducated per- 
son I have ever met. I do not doubt but that you 
have some knowledge, yet you do not seem to be 
able to show it. You should be able to take down 
accurately what I dictate slowly to you, but I see 
you do not do well with your stenography at all. 
Miss V., the public stenographer, who did my 
work before you came, never wrote such stuff 
as you do sometimes. My advice is that you 
endeavor to become a good stenographer and be 
able to earn some kind of a salary, and do that 
for the rest of your life, or until you get mar- 
ried anyway ; that is enough for a woman. Then, 
too, it is better than being a saleswoman, a mil- 
liner, or something of that sort.” 

The days wore into weeks, and the weeks into 
months, and still Mildred seemed always to make 
mistakes in letters. She could not understand 
under any circumstances, no matter how hard 
she would strain her ear. He told Mildred she 
should ask over when anything did not make 


In a Law Office. 


1 19 

sense; but she was tired of asking over when it 
did no good. How many nights she went home 
with her heart aching because there was always 
something wrong in her letters — again and again 
something corrected. Ah! and what is there 
that touches the heart of the stenographer more 
than to see the ink correction? There is some- 
thing cruel in that dash of black fluid — there is 
something in it which makes you wish you had 
never learned how to make those odd-looking 
marks. And all because someone did not speak 
plain, you misunderstood, or some little mark 
looked just like some other. 

Mildred was never given permission to study, 
but was advised by her attorney to read story 
books instead of text books. “I see you have on 
your desk a Brief History of England,” he re- 
marked one morning, “and I want to tell you that 
what you want is an extended history of all na- 
tions — read numbers of biographies.” 

Mildred answered that what she was endeav- 
oring to do was to pass an entrance examination. 

“Ah ! that’s a mistaken idea ; you have no need 
of examinations. Go to the theatres, go to 
church, make friends ; that is what you need to 
do.” 

Will matters go on just as they are at present, 
Mildred, or will the clouds which hang above you 
now drop still lower? 


CHAPTER XIX. 


DARKER SHADOWS. 

Mildred was still very disappointed with this 
office position. She took it with the supposition 
that she would have time to study, and she was 
getting no time whatever. She did not have Sat- 
urday afternoons like other stenographers, and 
had to work from eight o’clock until seven, and 
many nights later, although when she was hired 
her employer stated her hours would be from 
8.30 A. M. until 5 P. M. 

She could not have much money left either on 
which to dress when she received only six dollars 
a week. Nearly all the young women who were 
employed in the building spent a large percentage 
of their salaries on their clothes, and so long as 
Mildred had been with them their attitude had 
been characterized by naught but unfriendliness, 
as they believed that one who could not look 
equal to them in dress was not worthy their com- 
panionship. She had spoken now and then to 
the girl with the fluffy red hair in the office across 
the hall, for the girl had sometimes borrowed a 
window stick, a stamp or some trifle, by which 


Darker Shadows. 


121 


means Mildred had met her. In some way, 
though, she had learned that Mildred drew a 
rather diminutive salary, and, meeting her one 
day going out at the lunch hour, queried why 
she did not carry her lunch ; “for you just simply 
cannot get anything to eat unless you join the 
Business Woman’s Club or go to The Mrs. Clark 
Co.,” said the young woman, “and those places 
just soak you for cash.” Sometimes, too, Mil- 
dred met her on the elevator, but some way she 
always turned her head to the opposite side. Is 
it not strange what a short revolution in life these 
“head turners” have? 

Those long autumn nights that Mildred 
thought to have put on her books were gone 
She had had to work overtime, and even when 
she closed her desk at night the cabinet roll did 
not envelope the worries of the day — she took 
them home with her ; and she could not count the 
tears she had shed on that old No. 2 Remington. 

The fact that Mildred could not do her work 
in as satisfactory a manner as other stenographers 
could be easily accounted for — for who does not 
know what it is to be annoyed by an always com- 
plaining employer? Neither was it singular that 
only yesterday morning she should put a letter in 
the wrong envelope. Of course, the firm to 


122 


Mildred McElroy. 


whom it went sent it back, and when the attorney 
opened it he laid it upon Mildred’s desk, saying : 
“That’s not just the way to do business; I will 
keep you until I get another stenographer.” 

Mildred did not answer, for there was no use 
in answering. She saw it plainly; she must get 
another place. But how short a time she had 
in which to do it. Her lunch hour was so brief 
that she could not get time to go to the typewriter 
exchanges. “I will put an ad. in the Law Bulle- 
tin,” she thought, “and that might bring success.” 
Yet she was doubtful. She bought next Sun- 
day’s Tribune. Her eye fell on the want column 
and she read : 

“Wanted — A stenographer in a law office ; must 
have experience ; small pay. Address E, Tri- 
bune.” 

On the following Monday morning she was 
not surprised when the mail carrier brought in 
a voluminous package of letters, tied by a thick 
piece of twine. Mr. Le Grosse broke the cord 
about them, and then quietly cut each one open 
with his knife. After piling them all in a heap 
at one side of his desk he remarked: “I put an 
‘ad’ in yesterday’s Tribune, and this is the result.” 

“It is not at all startling news to me,” said Mil- 
dred ; “I believe I read the notice long before you 


Darker Shadows. 


123 


did on Sunday morning, as I was seeking for a 
good one to answer myself.” 

Mildred could not for a moment think of being 
out of work. She could leave, she knew, and 
seek another position, but she did not know how 
long it would take her. She knew the man to 
be cowardly, and wondered if ’twere in her power 
to make him think she was more independent 
if it would not deter him, at least for a time, in 
his plans of hiring another stenographer. He 
might then think it would not matter so much 
whether he discharged her or not. It flashed 
through her mind that she would pretend to have 
another place in view, and would use a letter as a 
medium to let him know of this fact. 

It was past the noonday hour when Mildred 
went to the Noonday Rest to luncheon. Many of 
the stenographers as they came in passed into 
the sitting room to lounge upon the easy chairs 
and couches, while they spent a few minutes read- 
ing the new magazines; but Mildred mingled 
with a long line of girls who immediately sought 
the dining room. As they ate strains of music 
from the fingers of a skillful pianist stole out over 
the tables and helped to lift the morning’s petty 
burdens, which rested on the minds of the young 
women. Some leaned wearily back in their 
chairs, and as they pushed from them a hot drink 


124 


Mildred McElroy. 


or a dish of dessert exclaimed: “Oh, dear! I do 
not think a woman ought to work. Her place is 
in the home.” 

When Mildred sat down to the writing desk 
she wrote on paper stamped “The Noonday 
Rest 

October 30, 18 — 

Mrs. Elizabeth McElroy, Saginaw, Mich. 

Dear Aunt — You asked me in your last letter 
what I thought about coming to Saginaw to work 
for Cousin Harry. I suppose it would be just 
the thing for me, because I have had experience 
in law and know I could fill the place. 

I do not like Chicago so well as I thought I 
would at first. It seems it is not just the kind of 
a place for one to get a start in; but Cousin 
Harry’s term as Prosecutor would be over in two 
years, and I could then come back to Chicago, 
for I do not think there is any other city in which 
one can climb the ladder of success so fast as 
here, once you are in the right place. 

No doubt I will get a letter from Harry to- 
morrow. MILDRED. 

Mildred addressed an envelope for her letter, 
and going back to the office, threw it upon the 
mailing desk, as if she had forgotten to fold it 
up, and knew he would be sure to read it. 


Darker Shadows. 


125 


“I guess that sounds as if I was telling the 
truth,” she thought, “and I am quite certain he 
will never doubt the existence of that imaginary 
Aunt Elizabeth or Cousin Harry ; and if I can 
make him think so for a week or so anyway, I will 
be able to secure a new place in that time.” 

And Mildred never saw the new stenographer. 
She only asked herself if the future would be 
somewhat like the past ? 


CHAPTER XX. 


FIRST RECOMMENDATION. , 

Mildred’s last experience had taught her that 
there was not so much to be gained from working 
in law offices as she had thought heretofore. In 
the first place, the pay in the class of law offices 
in which she would be hired was small, and in the 
second place, there were more details concerned 
with it, and the hours more irregular. 

She had been sent from the typewriter ex- 
change to a manufacturing concern on the West 
Side of the city, and how her heart ached as she 
alighted from the car before the door. The man- 
ager was not in, but the time clerk told her to 
wait. Shortly before I o’clock he came in, and 
Mildred’s first opinion of him was that he was 
firm and decisive and would exercise justice. He 
called her to his desk and asked that she take 
some dictation which he wished her to transcribe 
immediately. After he had read the letter which 
she handed back he stated that they were willing 
to pay her eight dollars. “Our stenographer is 
ill with a fever,” he added, “but you can stay with 
us until she gets better. In the meantime, how- 


First Recommendation. 


127 


ever, if you succeed in finding a permanent place 
take it — do not let us inconvenience you.” 

Mildred had done a great deal of hard work 
by herself and it was counting now. The dicta- 
tion here was difficult but she was able to take it 
fast and accurately. The ink correction did not 
appear, as of old, on her letters, and she felt a 
good deal of satisfaction in folding each night 
the fair, typewritten pages for the mailing basket. 
After she had been here six weeks, the manager 
came to her desk and told her the stenographer 
was to return. “But your work has been satis- 
factory,” he said, “and any time you feel like 
referring to us you are at liberty to do so.” 

“Is it possible,” thought Mildred, “that my 
work has at last been acknowledged ? Is this my 
first recommendation?” 

The next office to which Mildred was sent 
offered to pay nine dollars per week, and the 
manager asked her for that recommendation. He 
decided to accept her, assuring her that there was 
a chance for a raise. He requested that she 
begin work that morning, and bade Mildred fol- 
low him to the room where the stenographers 
were working, for she was to be hired as one 
among many. He stopped before a large desk 
just inside the railing, and introduced her to the 
“head stenographer,” Miss S., a bright, smiling 


128 


Mildred McElroy. 


young woman of no more than twenty-three 
years of age. She took Mildred to the wardrobe, 
the door of which she swung open, saying as she 
did so : “Hang them on the hook near the door, 
girlie.” She pulled the chair out from an oak 
desk on which was a Fay-Sholes Typewriter, and 
then proceeded to show her the different kinds of 
stationery that were used, and where she would 
find other materials needed in her work. Mil- 
dred was assigned to the credit department, where 
her letters were long and heavy, and required just 
a little more tact than mere mechanical writing. 
The manager for whom she worked was not ex- 
acting, and she went about with the feeling that 
everything was work, and hard work, too. 

It will not be surprising to learn that the “head 
stenographer” in this firm should see many char- 
acteristics of the young assistant bookkeeper’s na- 
ture which were much akin to her own. She 
was sure that some day he would sketch on some- 
one of the large Chicago newspapers, and how 
eagerly she looked at all his sketches which he 
brought to her every morning the result of his 
work the night previous. 

And the two typewriter girls — they did not 
belong to the interfering class, to the jealous or 
presumptuous. They even told Mildred now and 
then they wished they could do as good work as 


First Recommendation. 


129 


she. One of them, however, was much more 
addicted to finery than the other, and how fruit- 
less it would be to try and count the number of 
hours which she spent at her toilet. She was 
always ready to believe people when they told 
her she was handsome, and it is not too much to 
say that there was much in store for Miss R. 
You must understand that I mean in the way of 
admiration, for the books weje to be audited in 
January and a young accountant was coming. 
Sometimes accountants had fallen in love with 
typewriter girls, “and why should not this one,” 
thought Miss R., “with me?” She heralded his 
coming with a new velvet waist with gold trim- 
mings, and black silk skirt. His eyes did not 
fail to appreciate her finery either, for he had not 
been turning the pages of the ledger a day before 
he found it necessary to be at her desk requesting 
the loan of all the implements ever used in clerical 
life. There were spare minutes, too, during the 
lunch hour when he could sit beside her in just 
the way she liked to have him do, for it made 
the story so real — the thrilling novel she had sat 
up so many nights until 3 o'clock in the morning 
to finish reading. She poured all her sorrows 
into his ear, and what a flood of sympathy came 
from the heart of the accountant. How often 
when she looked up from her machine where she 


130 


Mildred McElroy. 


sat copying circular letters she had met his gaze, 
that gaze which came from a large yellow head 
which revealed in its very poise that its ancestors 
had assisted it to its present place in life ; but in 
his eyes Miss R. saw the love light come and go. 
She had at last found an admirer, and a Chicago 
admirer, too. 

But one morning a group of girls stood sym- 
pathizingly over her, as if to say : “It may not yet 
be true.” She was crying affectedly, for upon 
her desk was a letter which was addressed to the 
firm for whom she was working, and that fatal 
letter read : “Please send check to Mrs. G.” And 
the signature was that of the accountant. The 
manager had dictated to Miss R. an answer. She 
said she did not care to live. Death would be 
merciful, for what would life be without the Chi- 
cago accountant? 

She did not die, nevertheless, and when the 
lightning figurer returned the next week and, 
catching sight of the object upon which he had 
lavished so many attentions, turned toward her 
the love light gaze, she walked swiftly to his desk, 
her long skirts trailing behind her, and, picking 
up a pen near him to sign a letter, she said: 
“How’s Mrs. G. ?” Mr. G. hesitated a moment 
and then answered with suavity : “Oh, she’s pretty 
well.” Yet he shuddered lest someone would 
reveal the fact to Mrs. G. that her name had been 
jeered at — and so much worse to come from the 
lips of a slighted typewriter girl. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


A TWELVE-DOLLAR JOB. 

1. Write every word as if your life depended 
on it. 

2. Don’t misunderstand ; ask over. 

3. Make no errors in typewriting; omit noth- 
ing in your notes. 

4. Never write anything which does not make 
sense. 

5. Do not let a letter leave your hands without 
reading it. 

Mildred had never deviated from these five 
rules, and attributed her good success to the 
strict observance of them. She knew, though, 
that there would be no prospect of her receiving 
a higher salary in the department in which she 
was emplcyed before six months more at least, 
and, knowing that she was doing better work 
than many who were drawing $11 or $12, she 
determined to seek another position during her 
vacation week. She felt a little reluctance at 
leaving the place where she had had such good 
success, but there was a dignity in drawing a 


132 


Mildred McElroy. 


good salary, and she was more than ready to do 
anything to obtain it. 

When Mildred met the manager of the firm 
to which she had been sent he asked her if she 
were accustomed to handling correspondence 
alone without dictation. Mildred had not had a 
great deal of practice along this line, but assured 
him that she believed herself capable of doing it. 
After some consideration he agreed to let her 
work a week, telling her if the firm was not satis- 
fied with her services in that time she could re- 
turn to her old place, but Mildred did not want to 
leave. She was willing to expend every effort to 
do the work she had undertaken. 

The manager introduced her to a young woman 
who did the clerical work of the firm, filing, copy- 
ing orders, keeping the card systems, etc., and 
who had a very gracious and pleasing personality. 
After some time she explained that she intended 
following a religious life and would enter the mis- 
sionary school on Indiana avenue that autumn, 
to become a Methodist deaconess. Mildred was 
extremely sorry to think of her leaving, for she 
had become attached to her very quickly. 

The manager dictated rapidly, and as the dic- 
tation was scientific, it was, of course, very hard ; 
but Mildred was possessed of an unbounded am- 
bition to do her work in a manner which would 


A Twelve-Dollar Job. 


133 


bear criticism, and by the dint of hard persever- 
ance soon became familiar with the new terms. 

Her week was speeding rapidly, and almost 
breathlessly she awaited that last day. Would 
the manager tell her her work had not been satis- 
factory? Would she have to go back to the old 
firm and feign she had had a vacation, and be dis- 
appointed and discouraged, or would he tell her 
her work had been satisfactory — that old word 
which meant so much? Would she hear it? 
Would she get her envelope with its twelve dol- 
lars, and would she continue to receive this 
amount right along — an example in arithmetical 
progressions, as it were ? This would mean such 
an encouraging letter to her mother. 

When that final Saturday came the manager 
seemed to be aware that Mildred was anxious to 
know her fate, and told her to file such-and-such 
a paper on Monday. This was good news, but 
did not the manager sometimes mis-speak ? If he 
did this would shatter any faint gleam of hope. 
Mildred could hardly repress her thanks, how- 
ever, when the last letter had been dictated and 
she was told to continue in the firm’s employ. 

The work in this firm was very heavy, and 
each employe seemed to work to the full extent 
of his ability; the bill clerk, the order clerk, the 
shipping clerk, and even the office boy was 
rushed. 


134 


Mildred McElroy. 


There was no one, however, who seemed to 
have a desire to undervalue Mildred’s ability, un- 
less the bookkeeper or cashier. The bookkeeper 
put the bills, invoices and monthly statements in 
her filing basket, and occasionally gave her letters 
bearing on the resources of the firm. He had 
much to say about what the stenographer did and 
what she knew. 

“He gave her a letter the other day and she 
mixed it all up. He never said at all what she 
wrote, but let it go, not liking to raise disturb- 
ance.” 

This individual, who had reached the “sunny 
side” of forty, thought that somewhere or other 
on the “downslide of life” if the firm had not 
“kicked up its heels” he would have been a man- 
ager sure. In his eyes he bore a certain relation- 
ship to the house. “He was worthy of consider- 
ation,” he said ; “he had been there so long.” He 
went to “feed” with the manager and was the 
only one of the employes who shook hands with 
the proprietors when they returned home from 
extended business trips or long vacations. In the 
manager’s absence he was authority, and was de- 
pended on by callers for information. In gen- 
eral, as I have noted before, the bookkeeper in 
this particular firm got consideration, “and they 
should remember,” he added, laying his glasses 


A Twelve-Dollar Job. 


135 


on the daybook, “that I have done a whole lot 
toward the advancement of this company.” 

He had many pleasant chats, too, with the 
cashier, at which times all firm affairs were thor- 
oughly raked over. If the stenographer had not 
been long in their midst they gossiped of her: 
“And what does John think of it?” The “John” 
involved being the manager, who was usually 
dubbed by his first name behind his back. “Oh, 
my, get in a stenographer who would not make 
mistakes, and, above all, get a man, who would do 
the work of those two girls, thereby lightening 
up the pay roll.” It was these individuals who 
always told the new stenographer that it was one 
of the rules of the company not to say a word to 
the help when they were going to discharge them ; 
simply put a slip in the pay envelope, that would 
be all ; and for weeks and weeks the stenographer 
would open her envelope each Saturday with a 
beating heart to look for the mournful missive 
which never came. 

The cashier, as well as the bookkeeper, had 
heart ties with the firm. He was a “gentleman” 
of the foreign type, and worked for the good of 
the country, and it is for you and I to ascertain 
in what way the country is benefited. If he 
chanced to see a book on Mildred's desk whose 
gravity was above the “Five Cent Nick Carter 


136 


Mildred McElroy. 


Series” he would sneer at it, telling her she would 
be great some day if she kept on at that rate. She 
never “caught his idea” when he gave her any 
work to do, and when she showed him her mem- 
bership card on the National Court Reporters’ 
Association he pushed the cash he was counting 
away from him and queried why they did not 
make the applicant write 200 words per minute 
for five minutes instead of 150 — then every in- 
competent stenographer could not become a mem- 
ber. He had had the advantages of a college 
training and this alone had been enough to craze 
him when he found himself among people “who 
had none of these things.” “Why even,” he 
thought, “if I never rose any higher than cashier 
for this company some Lake Shore Drive belle 
would marry me just for the sake of marrying a 
cultured man.” 

He never told Mildred he was from a univer- 
sity. It was not the prevailing fashion — a sort of 
“don’t-mention-it” proposition. It was not neces- 
sary to tell the stenographer he was a member of 
the alumni of an Eastern university — she was, 
after all, too insignificant. 

Ofttimes in Mildred’s heart there came pierc- 
ing pangs of pain at these continuous rebuffs, 
and then while bitter tears fell fast she mur- 
mured : “Oh, Robert, why did you die ? Why 


A Twelve-Dollar Job. 


137 


were the opportunities of my early life taken from 
me to leave me to be looked on with contempt 
by others who have less brains than I ?” 

But Mildred, when the ledger of life has been 
closed and the Recording Angel has gathered to- 
gether the statements of existence, and with the 
key of time locks the deep vault of earth after 
having made the last deposit, the bookkeeper and 
the cashier will have ceased to criticise the sten- 
ographer, for it will be of no avail. She will 
be waiting in that eternal office for her last ap- 
pointment, but not with notebook and machine, 
for the Angel of Resurrection has her carbon 
copies. They are an exact picture of her life. 
They show the fair unblemished pages and the 
ones on which she has tried to make reparation. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


WRITING A NATIONAL CIVIL SERVICE. 

EXAMINATION. 

Not long since Mildred had received one of 
those brown-covered manuals from the United 
States Civil Service Commission, and after pe- 
rusing it carefully, concluded it would not be the 
worst idea in the world to write one of these Gov- 
ernment stenographic examinations. 

Now, to anyone who has entered the steno- 
graphic profession, and who has any ambition 
whatever, a Civil Service examination is a familiar 
thing. He knows well that he who wields the 
pen swiftly enough to write 140 words in one 
minute gets marked 100 per cent., and if his fin- 
gers can play quickly enough over the keyboard 
of the typewriter to write 65 words in one min- 
ute he gets marked that magnanimous 100 per 
cent. Then there are the grade subjects — arith- 
metic, rough draft and composition. Nor has 
every applicant who writes this examination such 
a desire to go to Washington as one might think 
he had. He writes it more for the object of con- 
vincing himself that he is able to do the best 


Writing a Civil Service Examination. 139 

work, and could fill the best place were it offered 
him. 

The day previous to the event Mildred cleaned 
her machine carefully. She rubbed its type with 
benzine and all other “eens” until they shone as if 
they had never touched a ribbon. After she had 
cleaned it so thoroughly she was almost afraid to 
put her finger on a key she called the repair man 
to see that there was absolutely nothing wrong. 
She even went to the office across the hall to 
write her last letter, in order that she might do 
nothing which would mar the efficiency of this 
marvelous piece of mechanism for work on the 
momentous morrow. 

She opened her eyes the next morning upon a 
cold gray day, and sighed when she thought of 
all there was before her. It was raining, and a 
long, long shadow was cast over the Chicago post 
office ; yet it looked perfectly familiar with the 
rain hanging murky-like over the dark, dull red 
brick, although she did not enter the building 
with as light a step as she had ofttimes for 
stamps. 

Room 41. Mildred stood at the door with her 
card of admittance and the tag for her typewriter. 
The application card was taken first, and Mildred 
secured a seat near the front. She had with her 
four pencils, well sharpened at both ends, her pen, 


140 Mildred McElroy. 

erasers — she had everything; she had omitted 
nothing. On the bulletin outside the door she 
read the long list of names of those who were on 
the eligible list, and felt a pang of remorse when 
she thought of the many who were waiting, and 
she had not yet even passed. 

Her declaration sheet had been folded, sealed 
in its envelope and taken up. Mildred was glad 
that the paper on stenography was to come next. 
First, a preliminary test was given; then one at 
eighty words ; the next at one hundred ; the next 
one hundred and twenty, and the last — the one of 
so much gravity — at one hundred and forty. Will 
your hand falter, Mildred, when you write it? 
Can you reach it? Does your wrist stiffen and 
your pencil fall from between your thumb and 
finger before you reach the last sentence? Do 
you lose it nearly all, or do you get it in readable 
shape? You compare the one at one hundred 
and twenty with the one at one hundred and forty. 
Which will you take? You have missed two 
words in the last. Had you better let it go, or 
ought you to send in the one you wrote at lesser 
speed? You take the highest, and go steadily to 
your machine. You gaze longingly at the fair 
copy which you turn out and you wonder what 
the Board of Examiners at Washington will say 
to it. Will they mark it fairly, or will they let it 


Writing a Civil Service Examination. 141 

fall unheeded from their hands and send it back 
with zero? 

Will your hand falter and strike wrong letters 
when you are given dictation on the typewriter? 
Will you spell words wrong? Will you make the 
tabulated statement correct; or will you put the 
figures in irregular columns? If you do the lat- 
ter you must remember you will be marked off. 
Will you make a duplicate of that typewritten 
copy which they hand you as fair and beautiful 
looking as the original? You are marked off if 
you do not. 

Can you untangle the loops in this paper on 
rough draft ? Can you read the words whose let- 
ters seem to be almost glued together ? Can you 
do it in just ten minutes? If you do it in more 
you will be marked off. 

Can you translate English into Spanish just as 
well as you can translate Spanish into English? 
You will have to do it in this examination or else 
get marked off. Do these long paragraphs stare 
vaguely up at you, as if to say: “Ye know me 
not/' or do they look smiling down at you and 
bespeak the words you studied only the day be- 
fore? 

Did you do the last example on that arithmetic 
paper, making up an account just as it should be? 
You ought to, for you thought you asked the 


142 


Mildred McElroy. 


bookkeeper nearly everything there is to know 
about bookkeeping before you came here ; but if 
you put your figures on the credit side when you 
should have put them on the debit you will be 
marked off. 

Will you walk proudly along the walk to-night 
with your shoulders thrown back with that air 
which says : “I never fail?” You had better not. 
Go modestly along without drawing any notice, 
for you may read upon that blank which they 
sent you in glaring black letters : “You have been 
marked ‘OFF.’ ” 

And if you do read this — these awful words — 
will you go on, or will you stop as if the frost 
had nipped your efforts as it does an early 
garden ? 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


THE FIRM FAILS. 

Three months later Mildred received her re- 
turns of the National Civil Service examination 
from the Commissioners at Washington, and, 
much to her satisfaction, found she had received 
an average of 80 per cent. ; but as women stood 
little chance of appointment unless their mark 
was 88 per cent, or 90 per cent., she knew it would 
be some time before she would be assigned. But 
Mildred was satisfied. So heavy had been the 
examination she had not expected to gain even 
the required 70 per cent. 

Matters continued to move smoothly, however, 
in the place in which she was drawing twelve dol- 
lars. She had encountered no drawbacks, and 
although there was not much time for study dur- 
ing office hours, her mind was clear and unruffled 
for thought at night. She was doing everything 
which would tend to make her a first-class sten- 
ographer. She took testimony occasionally in 
Court, watched eagerly for the announcement of 
a lecture, and never failed to report the sermon 
on Sunday, for she well knew that in a few years 
she would be doubly repaid for these efforts. 


144 


Mildred McElroy. 


But, Mildred, you cannot see the misty shadow 
which is fast veiling itself about your young am- 
bitions. You live in the present that is being 
and in a future planned according to your own 
workmanship, and that workmanship is only 
human — it can be as nothing any day. You can- 
not realize that these hard-wrought future plans 
now dormant in your active brain might fail to 
give the designed effect when it comes time to 
execute them. Yet words cannot make you see 
it now. 

Why was I not a mind painter? A painter of 
unforeseen events, inasmuch as I am writing this 
book to portray as best I can events as they come 
and go in their true fitness to him who puts his 
trust in the stenographic field? To be simply a 
painter of words is as naught, for anyone can 
paint words, and no one can scarcely hope for 
the skill which would enable him to put upon the 
canvas a future happening. And ah! if I were 
only gifted thus, I would paint a picture which 
the academies would call their grandest, and that 
picture would be “The Failure of a Firm” — it 
would mean so much to the commercial world 
and you, then, Mildred would know your future. 

Mildred McElroy had heard of failing firms, 
but she never thought it would be her lot to get 
in one. This company had been so prosperous. 


The Firm Fails. 


145 


She had never dreamed of such a thing as a fail- 
ure. She knew it was not the worst thing that 
could befall her in life — yet it was a heartsick 
feeling. 

Now, among the office boys was one lad who 
was Mildred’s favorite. It was he who had the 
chubby face, the large blue eyes, hair the color 
of the sickly, dying corn leaves; lips red-dyed, 
cherry-like, and always wreathed in a smile, and 
by him Mildred’s inkwell was always filled, the 
typewriter dusted and its letters well cleaned on 
mornings on which he knew she would make 
mimeograph copies. One day, though, after he 
had sat for an unusually long length of time at 
his humble little desk in the corner without speak- 
ing, he called Mildred to him and told her he 
was mailing letters which the members of the 
firm were writing in longhand, and when she 
stroked his curly locks and bid him not be solicit- 
ous of things which did not concern him, he heed- 
ed not her warning, for he saw upon her face a 
dark and rifting cloud through which no rain- 
bow dared to creep. “I was at the theatre last 
night,” he added, “and when I came by the office, 
going home, the lights were still burning.” 

As a few more days wore themselves away, 
Mildred noticed that the bookkeepers seemed 
bound not to disclose some secret. They talked 


146 


Mildred McElroy. 


seriously behind their cages, and when the foot- 
fall of a stenographer or clerk was heard return- 
ing they lowered their voices into the softest whis- 
per until they died away in the monotonous noise 
of falling daybook and ledger covers. 

She noticed that two or three accountants had 
come in to audit up the books, and that the di- 
rectors compared accurately this year’s profits 
with those of years gone by, and then wrote wires 
with the pen which had heretofore always been 
done in type. 

She noticed that the bill clerk did not bring his 
bills to the city bookkeeper’s desk as promptly as 
he used to ; that the order clerk’s ’phone rang re- 
peatedly before he lifted its receiver; that the 
shipping clerk put wrong addresses upon his 
packages — and all because the firm was failing. 

Neither did the manager call her to his desk to 
take dictation only in a manner bespeaking: “It 
will only be a few days longer.” She put her 
book upon the copy holder, she placed a piece of 
carbon between the paper; she rolled it in over 
the platen ; but the keys almost stuck to the rib- 
bon — they did not respond to her touch as of old, 
clicking merrily over the white surface, giving 
away the secrets of the firm’s inner life, and ’tis 
no wonder that they should not, for she struck 
them with no energetic spirit now. The number 


The Firm Fails. 


47 


of letters which was written diminished with 
each day ; the work was growing lighter, and for 
no other reason but that the firm was failing. 
She pinned the carbon copies to the letters and 
filed them all away ; but the file boxes were not 
crowded — they needed no transferring, for the 
firm was failing. 

The very atmosphere sighed under the echoes 
of whispers of consolidations and of business in- 
terests in far away cities. Mildred saw it all. 
She must leave. It was a broken up firm. 

But where would she go next? She clasped 
her hands in thought and paced the floor. She 
paused before the window, and the rude blast 
which shook the panes and the seagulls which she 
watched soaring disconsolately above the mizzen 
masts of the sleeping ships, and the river’s crested 
cream froth flecking hastily the wind-blown sur- 
face of the half-crystallized waves told her that 
the winter days were fast approaching — days 
which ever bring to one’s mind mocking thoughts 
of discharges and unrequited trials. 

She shuddered with the fear that she might 
fail again, for to trying critics her work was 
again to be subjected. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


ON THE BOARD OF TRADE. 

M. MONTGOMERY, 

Stocks, Bonds and Grain, 

Chicago Board of Trade, 

Chicago Stock Exchange. 

Private Wires. 2 — La Salle Street. 

After the failure of the firm for which Mil- 
dred had been working she was sent by the Rem- 
ington Typewriter Company to the above com- 
mission house. She hesitated a moment before 
opening the office door and wondered how such 
an applicant as she would “strike” brokers — men 
whom she thought had scarcely time to consider 
a personality. But if she could only get it ! Fif- 
teen dollars, it seemed a good deal after all. 

It had been a busy day in the pit, as the floor 
bore evidence of, with its bits of yellow paper and 
the ceaseless march of messenger boys carrying 
to and fro notations of the tickings of the wire. 
A marked inactivity and slow depression had 
characterized the market throughout the week, 
due to different causes; but nevertheless to-day 


On the Board of Trade. 


149 


was a “boomer” for railroad properties. Re- 
ports were anxiously looked for concerning the 
Harriman and Gould differences; the roads in 
which these magnates were interested were sell- 
ing on the “top notch,” and in consequence 
“shorts” were covering hastily. 

For the above mentioned reasons no active 
broker had been in his office during the morning, 
and it was late in the afternoon when Mildred 
returned. The man with whom she gained an 
audience did not resemble in the least the typical 
broker she had in mind. Instead of being fat 
and portly, with a double chin, he was of medium 
height, with a thin, expressive face, set off by 
large gray eyes which gave him a strange, weary 
look. 

When he read Mildred’s name he started 
strangely in his chair, and then said slowly, and 
with the greatest precision : “Miss McElroy.” 
There was a moment’s silence, and then he re- 
marked frankly: “Your experience, I presume, 
has not been on the commission line. However, 
we cannot expect you to be versed in the techni- 
calities of all kinds of business, and you will be- 
come accustomed to this grade of work in a few 
days. Our hours are from nine o’clock until 
four, and the correspondence is not heavy. We 
have a few statistical statements and a good many 


Mildred McElroy. 


150 

wires besides; but when we give you work we 
usually want it done in a hurry. Quite frequent- 
ly Mr. C. and myself do not require the services 
of the stenographer until two or three o’clock in 
the afternoon, and you will see this gives you 
but little time to write out what we have given 
you, which is sometimes quite a bulk of work, 
particularly if trading has been heavy. Of 
course, you are allowed to work overtime, but we 
do not want you to come in with the supposition 
that you are not to have your regular hours, and 
will give you your work as punctually as possible. 
At times when you are not occupied you are at 
liberty to do as you wish.” 

While this man had been speaking Mildred had 
noticed a strange look in those gray eyes, which 
seemed to tell her he was thinking of some past 
grievance, but their far-away expression forbade 
the thought it was of her. “Come down to-mor- 
row morning and we will be ready for business.” 
This was the last he said. He opened the door 
and that piercing glance followed her far down 
the corridor. 

Mildred had every convenience which a sten- 
ographer might need in her new surroundings. 
There were wire baskets for correspondence — for 
that which had been written and that which was 
to be filed away; copy holder, fountain pens, 


On the Board of Trade. 


I5i 

linen paper of the finest texture, embossed sta- 
tionery, and when she drew her chair from the 
mahogany desk a white kitten scampered out over 
the velvet rug and played with the long blue rib- 
bon round its neck. 

The bookkeeper employed by this firm was a 
pleasant, genial individual, quite different from 
the last ones with whom Mildred had unfortu- 
nately met. She loved to look at the laughing 
baby face he had placed just above the rack where 
he kept his pens and the picture of the sober-faced 
girl beside the baby’s likeness touched her, too, 
and after she was there some time the bookkeeper 
proudly told her it was his wife. 

Mildred often heard the senior partner of the 
firm call up his house and ask the servants as to 
the health of his invalid wife; but Malcolm 
Montgomery never telephoned to anyone nearer 
him than those for whom he watched the marks 
upon the tape. He worked ceaselessly. He was 
never weary. It was his sole ambition to make 
good trades. No doubt, too, this was why he 
was richer than the other man who never bought 
stocks only moderately, no matter how tempting 
market conditions might be. 

One day after he had finished the afternoon’s 
dictation Mildred went to her desk to make tran- 
scripts of numerous letters. She turned to the last 


152 


Mildred McElroy. 


letter in her book, one which she was desirous 
of sending out on an early mail, and wrote it out 
quickly and returned to the broker’s office to ob- 
tain his signature. Before approaching his desk 
she paused before the door. The man’s eyes 
were fixed upon a picture — a picture of a girl 
whose face was round and perfect, the chin oval, 
the eyes blue, the hair golden yellow, the lips 
curved in a bewitching smile — just the kind of a 
face that one reads of in fiction. The cabinet 
was old — the style one of many years ago. “A 
sweetheart,” thought Mildred; “this is why he 
at times looks so disconsolate.” 

When she handed him the letter he looked at 
her in much the same way as he did on the first 
day she came, and then reached for a book which 
lay on one side of his desk — a gilt-edged volume 
of Tennyson’s poems. Mildred had been to an- 
swer the telephone in his absence and had drop- 
ped it. He trembled as he took it up, and she 
wondered why he should do so. “The book is 
very dear to me,” said Mildred, “and just now 
that I was studying the Victorian poets I brought 
it down. It was father’s. He loved Tennyson.” 
She had never told Malcolm Montgomery that 
her father had been murdered, for some way it 
hurt her. The broker turned to the fly leaf, and 
read slowly: “Yale, 18 — ” “Your father was 


On the Board of Trade. 


153 

an Eastern man, Miss McElroy. I, too, spent 
my boyhood days in the far East.” 

It was a faltering, weak signature, though, 
which he put to the letter, and Mildred was glad 
to get away. She could not think of any reason 
why her presence should affect the man so. She 
consoled herself by thinking, however, that she 
looked like that woman whom he could never see 
again. 

But was this picture really that of a dead sweet- 
heart ? 


CHAPTER XXV. 


IN THE CITY HALL. 

The hard school of experience had taught Mil- 
dred the value of education, and while it inspired 
in her an ambition for lofty achievements, it 
awoke in her as well a true thankfulness for 
what she did possess — a means of earning a live- 
lihood by which she could cultivate her talents. 
Her hours as a Board of Trade stenographer 
were very short, and she had been able to pass 
nearly all of the entrance examinations to the 
Chicago University. She knew she could easily 
earn enough to defray her expenses through 
school, and that once she had earned a literary 
degree, combined with her skill in shorthand, it 
would open the road to her in journalism — that 
profession for which she had every reason to 
believe she was adapted. 

It was early in September that Mildred saw 
the following notice in the Chicago Journal : 

STENOGRAPHERS. 

“The Civil Service Commission of the City of 
Chicago will hold an original entrance examina- 


In the City Hall. 


155 


tion for stenographers, official service, Division 
C, Grade 2, on Wednesday, November 26, 19 — , 
at 9.00 A. M., room 400, City Hall. 

“The scope of this examination will be pen- 
manship, as shown in examination papers — writ- 
ing from dictation, or copying, rough draft, spell- 
ing, arithmetic, letter writing, and will also in- 
clude questions covering the applicant’s knowl- 
edge of special subjects pertaining to stenography 
and typewriting.” 

And Mildred had written it, and passed on 96 
per cent., a mark which had merited her appoint- 
ment, which she had received to-day. A $75 
salary! Would she take it? It meant a raise 
of $10 more in the month than she was now draw- 
ing, yet when she recalled all she had heard of 
injustices which existed in cities where Civil 
Service reform existed, she hesitated. She 
hesitated and thought well on what might con- 
front her during that long, long six months she 
would be on probation. Yet she could not refuse 
it; it was too tempting an offer. Carefully, yet 
almost reluctantly, she wrote her last letter, for 
she knew it was the last time; she would never 
again write of the certainties or uncertainties of 
stocks. Malcolm Montgomery signed it, and 
then said: “You will come in and see me now 
and then, Miss McElroy, and let me know how 


156 Mildred McElroy. 

you get on. I wish you every success.” This 
was all after a friendly handclasp. 

Then Mildred closed her desk for the last time 
— closed it for another. Down the last letter on 
her notebook she struck a long line, just as if she 
were doing it so she would know the next day 
where she left off. She put sharp points on her 
pencils for the morrow’s correspondence, as had 
been her usual custom ; she listened for the clock 
ticks, and how much louder they sounded; she 
put her finger on the electric button and turned 
out the light. It put her almost in darkness, but 
yet a faint gas jet burned dimly in the corner over 
the file cases, and in one of its wasting, flickering 
gleams she read for the last time all there was on 
the black slate in the corner, then closed the door 
behind her and went out to face the world’s 
treacherous and harrowing doubtfulness again. 

When she reached her office in the City Hall 
the next morning, at 9.00 A. M. sharp, a dark- 
skinned young woman arose from her desk to 
meet her. Mildred highly appreciated the girl’s 
friendliness, as we are all apt to when among 
strangers. 

“Your name is McElroy,” she said inquiringlv. 

“Yes.” 

“There were four or five on the list between 
you and I. You know my name, of course — De 


In the City Hall. 


157 


Forest; but what I was going to tell you: There 
were too many waived before you. Oh, I don’t 
know, the proposition is too good to be whole- 
some.” 

“Well, what were their reasons for waiving?” 

“Search me. Scared out. I can call it noth- 
ing else. I know they would not refuse a $75 
job unless there was a ‘nigger’ in the fence some- 
where. Did they tell you you would be raised ?” 

“They said they were starting them in on $75 ; 
that was all.” 

“Well, my opinion is that someone is on the 
list below you — stands in, you know — a political 
puller; and, of course, in order to get them in 
they must first get rid of all before. I am pretty 
positive that is it, for I have kept the list stand- 
ing for dear knows how long, not a woman being 
appointed in that time. Ninety-eight per cent., 
you know, is pretty high, and anyway, I’m a rein- 
statement. My probation has been served, and I 
tell you I served it dearly, and they consequently 
cannot remove me without serving papers. Here 
is Mr. Longstreet. Mr. Longstieet, she’s the 
sweetest thing ever happened. You see I’m at- 
tached to her already.” 

Mildred found Mr. Longstreet an obliging 
young man, very competent and a well wisher to 
others. At least, Mildred thought him friendly 
disposed toward her. 


Mildred McEiroy. 


158 

During the course of the morning she was 
given a number of letters by different members 
of the Board, and came out very successful on 
them for a first trial. Miss De Forest asked that 
she might look them over before they were sent 
out, and scrutinized them closely to see if there 
was anything scratched out or inserted. When 
lunch time came she insisted on Mildred going 
out with her for “a bite,” as she put it, after hav- 
ing first gained Mr. Longstreet’s consent. While 
Mildred was putting away some papers on her 
desk Miss De Forest drew from one of her 
drawers a Uneeda biscuit box, and applied on 
one corner of a linen towel a quantity of the pow- 
der which the box contained, and proceeded to 
besmear her dark features very freely with it. 

“Will you not ruin your complexion?” said 
Mildred in an undertone. 

“Why, no, honey; ’tis harmless as flour, and 
besides gives a florid tint to my black visage for 
at least an hour or two. But I must really go to 
the president of the Board,” she explained, as 
she walked down the hall, “and see if he’ll not 
let me draw my pay before the month is up. 
Every dollar I have is soaked up in a patent on 
the Underwood shift key. Consequently I’m just 
to pieces.” 

“Why, you look all right,” said Mildred sym- 
pathetically. 


In the City Hall. 


159 


“I should think I did look all right,” was Miss 
De Forest’s exclamation. “The ruffle on this old 
petticoat almost torn off, and it just come within 
one of tripping me up this morning and throw- 
ing me into a North Clark street car; an’ now 
it’s ripped again. But I’ll glide in here,” she 
added, as she neared the Schiller Theatre build- 
ing, “and loop it up temporarily with pins or 
some of these Niagara clips, which I have here 
in my pocketbook.” 

Mildred did not eat very much luncheon that 
day, so filled with apprehension was she at Miss 
De Forest’s remarks, and on returning for the 
afternoon went diligently to work, determined 
to learn more of the people by whom she had 
been employed. 

“Of the three for whom you are working,” 
explained Miss De Forest, “you will have the 
most trouble with that O’Lifferty, and I want 
to impress on you right now that the girl on the 
list below you stands in with all his pals ; neither 
have I much comment to make on that Secre- 
tary Jenks, and, honey, when it comes your turn 
to file papers in there with him you’ll appreciate 
more what I tell you now. I just cannot ‘go’ 
one of those interfering bachelor secretaries, 
whose whole source of information comes from 
what they remember out of Donald Mitchell’s 


160 Mildred McElroy. 

‘Reveries of a Bachelor/ or J. M. Barrie’s ‘When 
a Man’s Single.’ ” 

Mildred did not, however, give much credence 
to her friend’s words, and resolved to ask Mr. 
Longstreet for his opinion before forming any 
conclusions. Yet as time went on Mr. Jenks 
quite frequently asked if she thought she would 
like to remain working for the Board, and as if 
she had ever met quite such a particular people 
as they were. Mr. O’Lifferty’s letters, too, be- 
gan to disagree very markedly with shorthand 
notes, and now that things had reached this crisis 
Mildred queried Miss De Forest more than ever 
as to her knowledge of personal matters. Miss 
De Forest only explained, however, that there 
was no use; that she surmised there was an in- 
tended “fire” in view. She knew the next girl 
on the list was a friend; that settled it. 

“If you had worked under the Civil Service 
the length of time I have, and seen the lay-offs 
and the requests for leaves of absence, etc., you’d 
be easier convinced of what was going to happen. 
And let me tell you, honey — this between you 
and I — you’ll never get along in these political 
jobs unless you try and get on the good side of 
the Aldermanic push, and corral some influence. 
Now, two of the most prominent political in- 
triguers in the City Hall signed my voucher — 


In the City Hall. 


161 


that is, they had always been prominent in Demo- 
cratic campaigning, putting up money for vote- 
buying, etc. This, you see, leaves me in a far 
different light than you are in. If this Board 
were to file papers on me to-day they know all I 
would have to do would be to whistle and their 
‘hash’ would be settled. Anyway, just touch a 
Frenchman — you know — that’s all you have 
to do. 

“Yet, do you remember, honey, how Solo- 
mon said : ‘Seest thou a man diligent in his work 
— he shall stand before kings and not before mean 
men.’ Now, if you’re not diligent in your work 
I don’t know who is, so just continue right along 
in the course you are in, and in case any furious 
whirlwind presents itself the secretary of the 
Commission will show you justice. I know him 
well, and if I were to just give you an introduc- 
tion his friendship for you would be established 
henceforward.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


UNDER THE COUNTY. 

“The president of this Board would just let 
you starve before he’d grant you the least con- 
cession/’ remarked Miss De Forest one rainy 
morning, as she sat by the radiator drying her 
feet. I have actually begged of him to let me 
draw my pay before the end of the month ; and 
my shoes speak for themselves. 

“Then this article here by Dorothy Dix has 
just roiled me up this morning,” she continued, 
bringing her fist down on the table, as she drew 
from under her coat the editorial sheet of last 
Sunday’s Chicago American, and passed it on to 
Mildred : ‘Birds of Paradise’ — that’s a nice how- 
d’ye-do — such birds as us can certainly show 
whereof we sing. It is these bare-faced injus- 
tices, as you and I see going right on to-day, that 
licenses such as Dix to open up and say these 
things; they know the props they are leaning 
against. And just take a squint at that cartoon,” 
added Miss De Forest, her face reddening still 
deeper. “Makes it’s employer’s wife look like 
thirty cents. I have yet to find the firm in this 


Under the County. 


163 


city whose stenographer makes the manager’s 
wife look like thirty cents, but there is one thing 
that I do know, and that is that if it were not for 
his stenographer more than one manager would 
go out the front door with a 30-cent can tied to 
his coat tail. Get to be a reporter, a proof reader, 
a correspondent and everything else there is im- 
aginable to get to be on this mundane sphere, 
and then be dubbed a ‘bird.’ ” 

“It is only wasting time to talk about such 
things, Miss De Forest,” said Mildred quietly, as 
she handed back the paper. It is plain to see 
that such insipid remarks are pointed at the 
stenographer all because of the fact that there 
are a few non-progressive, adventurous people 
who presume to dabble in shorthand, but these 
are the exception, not the rule. You know from 
your own experience that even this class is sel- 
dom found except among girls who hold influence 
with some member of the firm for whom they 
work, put there, no doubt, for social purposes 
more than for any other. We cannot expect to 
conquer the world, only by striving to rise above 
the common level. Then we do not need to talk ; 
but when we allow ourselves to notice such state- 
ments as have been quoted here, we only satisfy 
the world who believe us to be powerless to 
prove even what we do.” 


164 


Mildred McElroy. 


“Oh, yes !” exclaimed Miss De Forest excited- 
ly, “I often ask myself why I talk, but when you 
see everyone throwing cuts at you right and left 
— but dear, 'such is life in the great city.’ Yet 
there’s no chance in here for a raise, honey, and 
you know this is just what makes me so rampant 
at times. What’s seventy dollars when you have 
to pay hotel board? A woman gets a certain 
respect and protection when working under these 
services, and every one of these lads who have 
their 'finger on the button,’ are 'onto it;” you 
bet they’ll give no woman one of these positions 
unless she has her clutch on a municipal strap. 
If there’s anything good to be had their finger’s 
in the pie. They are too well versed on the ad- 
vantages of the 60-day clause to suit me. If they 
have any old bum on the string who can carve 
out a few scratches, providing he’s a forty-second 
cousin they’ll keep him in if it’s possible to do so. 
I remember once having an experience with a 
species of this sort. He stayed his sixty days, 
and then went over to write the examination. I 
lent him this Underwood machine, but the crazy 
fool did not have sense enough to bring the car- 
riage from left to right or right to left ; the sub- 
stance of about all he knew of a typewriter was 
how to erase. 

“But let me tell you, they’ve no more use for 


Under the County. 


165 

me in here than they have for you, only just that 
I make them come to time with my probation 
served off. I’m simply tired of having my busi- 
ness riddled all over as if I was of no account. 
Now, Mike, that office boy, knows more about 
waivers, leaves of absences, reinstatements, hold- 
overs, ‘fires,’ etc., than any corporation lawyer. 
I tell you, Miss McElroy, a chap like him might 
better be put at common labor than be kept hang- 
ing round a place like this — a Weary Willie will 
be manufactured out of him, that’ll be the out- 
come. He was round to my desk this morning 
telling me what he had caught wind of from so 
and so and so and so, but I just give him a good 
swift box in the side of the head, for I’ll not be 
pestered by him ; but, going back to what I meant 
to impart to you, he asked me if I’d heard any- 
thing more as to how they liked you. This tried 
my patience to the limit, and I told him to chase 
himself out as quick as his legs could carry him ; 
but, I can tell you, ‘honey,’ there’s a storm brew- 
ing for there’s no surer barometer than an office 
boy. 

“Hush! there he is now,” whispered Miss De 
Forest, as the boy opened the gate and handed 
a letter to Mildred. 


Mildred McElroy. 


1 66 

“My Dear Madam : 

“I am sorry to say that the managers of the 
departments in which you have been employed 
report your work ‘not satisfactory.’ 

“As you know, you were placed here on trial, 
and we now think you have been given as long 
and fair a one as is possible. If you wish, how- 
ever, to remain a few days longer in order to 
secure another place, I would be glad to arrange 
for it. 

“We will, however, call for another stenog- 
rapher from the Civil Service Commission soon. 

“Yours very truly, 

“ , President.” 

“It is just as I expected,” exclaimed Miss De 
Forest. “They have been digging like grave- 
robbers to get to that girl next to you. You got 
96 per cent., but I suppose people who pass ex- 
aminations cannot do work. Now, look at the way 
they have treated you. Put you on the old 
rickety machine that no one else could work on, 
and I have asked Mr. Tongstreet again and again 
why they did not fit you up as you should be, 
but the lad would not give me a satisfactory an- 
swer. He’s a boy, Miss McElroy, that you can- 
not get much valuable information out of ; yet, 
you should have asked for a leave of absence 
sooner; I gave you warning enough. However, 


Under the County. 167 

do not let this phase you in writing the County 
examination to-morrow.” 

“That’s so, it is to-morrow,” said Mildred, 
wearily, and how can I ever get a machine up 
there and bring myself down to write it in all this 
trouble ?” 

“Never you mind, ‘honey,’ I’ll see to the type- 
writer, and everything else that you need, and 
you confer with Mr. Longstreet when he comes 
in. If they refuse to give you a leave of absence, 
fight it out anyway. You are able to show you 
are competent to do work. You have passed the 
National Service examination (and I’m sure 
there’s none of the ‘hold-over push’ in this House 
could do it), and your literary productions cer- 
tainly prove you can use correst English in a 
business letter. It is that O’Lifferty that’s at 
the root of this. I have every reason to know 
he could find no fault with your work, if he 
told the truth, and even if he was so cowardly he 
dare not say his soul was his own, he should 
have told you about this and not let it crashed 
on you all at once — that is, as long as he pre- 
tended to be so friendly.” 

The result was that Mildred saw Mr. Long- 
street, and after some consideration it was de- 
cided that it would be best to ask for a leave of 
absence for three months, which, if granted, and 


Mildred McElroy. 


1 68 

she did not -return after thirty days, would re- 
store her name to the list. Whether or no, it 
would be granted was the question, but Mildred 
resolved to let things work themselves out as 
best they could, and at the earnest request of 
Miss De Forest, did not give up the plan of writ- 
ing the County examination the next day. 

“You will pass ahead of any of those other 
women,” was Miss De Forest’s comment, and $80 
is no small thing to toss over your shoulder, and 
if ’twas not for my having such a strong cinch, 
being a reinstatement, I’d take a ‘jump in the air’ 
at it myself.” 

“You have been granted a leave of absence, 
Miss McElroy,” said Mr. Longstreet the next 
day. It has been approved by the Board, and I 
consider you were very fortunate to get out of 
it as well as you have. It will restore your name 
to the list, and I hope will put you in line for a 
still more remunerative position in the City 
Hall.” 

The morning on which Mildred left Mr. Jenks 
was in high spirits, and wore one of his bright- 
est plaid vests in honor of the occasion. Mr. 
O’Lifferty did not press the button for a stenog- 
rapher, preferring to save what work he had for 
the next young woman whose relatives and 
friends had been so instrumental in working him 
into his present position. 


Under the County. 


169 


It was only a few weeks after Mildred left that 
she received notification that she was second to 
be assigned on the County Civil Service list. 
There were two positions open when the exami- 
nation was called, and consequently Mildred came 
in for the second. 

Miss De Forest had watched for the posting 
of the eligible list, and called upon Mildred the 
first morning after she took her position. “Well, 
‘honey,’ ” was her first exclamation, “I am glad 
to see you settled and drawing money again from 
the public coffers. I wish my soul were possessed 
with such peace. They have altogether too much 
to say about people around this City Hall to 
suit me, and my hair would be white before I 
could ever put these ‘political grafters’ to a ‘fin- 
ish.’ ” 

Mildred expressed her thankfulness for the 
many kindnesses that had been shown her dur- 
ing the short time they had been together, but 
Miss De Forest only said : “No thanks need be 
offered, ‘honey.’ Gratification is liberal reward 
enough for me. You certainly exhibited clear, 
cool judgment throughout the whole ‘fracas,’ for 
the definition of judgment in its crude sense is 
really, ‘the thing you possess when you don’t fly 
at people when you’re mad and pick their eyes 
out.’ ” 


170 


Mildred McElroy. 


Upon leaving the office that day Mildred made 
the suggestion to Miss De Forest that she try 
to obtain the position of Spanish translator and 
correspondent in some one of the new posses- 
sions. 

“Yes, ‘honey/ ” she replied, “that would be 
quite suitable for me ; but, if I should go away 
you’d be sure to get married, and then the best 
part of life for me would be gone. Everybody 
likes the fair, white-skinned people who do not 
‘step on etiquette —while I’m dark and ugly ; not 
fit even to be an angel ; for they have to be white 
as snow else the Lord don’t want them, and, any- 
way, how’d I look in wings? 

“So, adieu, ‘honey.’ Get them to remove the 
probation in two months. I must be ofL” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


A REJECTED LOVER. 

Some months after Mildred took her position 
in the County Building the people with whom 
she had been living since Lizzie’s departure an- 
nounced to her their intention of going to New 
York city. As considerable property had been 
left them by a relative, and life in Chicago, owing 
to their slender income, had been more of an ef- 
fort than a comfort, they were delighted with 
the though of going except for the fact that 
Mildred could not be with them. 

“If I would see Bishop Ferguson,” said Mil- 
dred to her landlady, “I wonder if he would not 
know of some one with whom I could live who 
would not seem like a stranger?” 

“I would suggest your seeing him this even- 
ing,” said the kind woman, “for I know the rector 
would be instrumental in finding you just such 
place.” 

Mildred immediately telephoned to the min- 
ister’s house and, being told he was in, lost no 
time in going to him. 

During the course of their conversation the 


172 


Mildred McElroy. 


maid knocked on the minister’s study and, open- 
ing the door at his bidding, announced Mrs. 
Glendowen. 

“Tell her to come in, Jennie. She is just who 
I wanted to see, Mildred,” said the old minister, 
smiling. 

“You must know Miss McElroy, Mrs. Glen- 
dowen ; she is one of our hardest working young 
people, and our boys and girls do not see just 
how they could get along without the clever 
stories which she writes in our Sunday school 
magazines.” 

She offered Mildred her finely-gloved hand, re- 
marking kindly: “You do not look strong; Dr. 
Ferguson is asking you to write too much for 
us.” 

“She has not been quite herself since her 
mother’s death,” said the minister, “and I wish 
to say to you, Mrs. Glendowen, that the friends 
with whom she has been living are leaving the 
city, and at the present time I am much interested 
in finding her a good home.” 

“Ah! yes, Dr. Ferguson, so fortunate that I 
should have come in at this time. You know I 
have been so lonely ever since little Marcella 
died, and as my husband’s business necessitates 
his being in the East so much more this year, I 
believe — if Miss EcElroy would care to be with 


A Rejected Lover. 


173 


us — we could get along amicably.” Mildred was 
much gratified at the way in which her friend 
received her, and would have thought herself ex- 
traordinarily favored had she not soon found 
much to her displeasure that Malcolm Montgom- 
ery was one of their personal friends. Mildred 
did not wish to meet the broker more than was 
in her power to help, for her own intuition told 
her he had no uncommon interest in her. Since 
she had severed her connection with his office 
she had met with him only occasionally, and then 
it had been of a formal nature. She could not 
alter matters, however, and tried to think the 
conclusions she had drawn of him were false. She 
thought of the picture at which she saw him look 
so long and earnestly on that autumn day, and 
hoped he would never be able to forget her, whose 
likeness it represented. 

But the season of spring passed into summer, 
and still nothing new characterized Mildred’s life 
as a Civil Service stenographer. It was the same 
routine — a sameness of duties, so peculiar to all 
classes of work in the building on the city’s 
square, where on your ears is ever falling the 
sound of the gavel and sonorous notes from Jus- 
tice-giving officers of the Court. 

She had this morning, owing to a reporter’s 
illness, been called in to take evidence in an im- 


174 


Mildred McElroy. 


portant trial in which the County Attorney was 
interested. So absorbed was she in her work 
that she had not noticed who any of the attorneys 
or witnesses were; but now that the argument 
for the defense had been called, she laid aside her 
pen and listened. That voice which was saying: 
“Gentlemen of the jury” — was it not familiar? 
Had she not heard it elsewhere? Could it be — it 
really was the ambitious boy whom she had met 
so many years ago in the shorthand school — 
Charles Fontebrau. 

The clerk announced the time for adjournment. 

The young attorney looked toward the reporter, 
and he knew her. 

“Why, Miss McElroy, I have often wondered 
ever since I left you that day in the typewriter 
exchange whether you ever got a position or not. 
You have not studied law?” 

“No; I have discovered my talents lie in an 
entirely different direction from law. I have 
long ago decided I was not ‘cut out’ for it, and 
have placed my hopes in literature. I have been 
writing a little, but do not receive much remu- 
neration for my work yet, except in the way of 
compliments.” 

“But you should not be discouraged because 
of that fact, Miss McElroy ; one has to do a good 
many things in law for which he must be con- 


A Rejected Lover. 


175 


tent to take his pay in laurels. Yet I am quite 
satisfied ; I am fortunate enough to be connected 

with a very well-known law firm here — H. & 

N . I did Court Reporting for a while after 

I left the University, and they not only gave me 
their work, but were instrumental in procuring 
for me the work of other attorneys, and after 
some time took me in as partner. ,, 

“Their offices are in the Stock Exchange Build- 
ing?" 

“Yes." 

“Then you must know Malcolm Montgomery, 
Mr. Fontebrau. They were his legal advisers." 

“Yes, to be sure, I knew Malcolm Montgom- 
ery; and you worked for him, Miss McElroy? 
Indeed, I am quite interested and surprised. You 
know, then, how much interest he takes in young 
people. He has done so much for me, and has 
frequently insisted on paying excessive fees for 
small service when he would not think of paying 
the other attorneys any more than was legally 
due them." 

“Yes, it is something commendable that one 
engaged in his line of work should have so much 
patience and sympathy with those who are trying 
to gain a foot-hold in professional fields." 

“He has relatives in my home city — yet I be- 
lieve he is an Eastern man." 


176 


Mildred McElroy. 


“You have met his cousin, then, Alice Creigh- 
ton ? Mr. Montgomery has told me a great deal 
of her. He is in the South now, and I think in- 
tends bringing her back with him for the purpose 
of having her attend one of the convent schools 
here.” 

“Yes, I know of the Creightons in New Or- 
leans. They were members of the Cathedral 
which I attended. Creighton, before his death, 
invested a good deal of capital in manufacturing 
enterprises in New Orleans, and lost considera- 
ble in it, but, nevertheless, left something over 
half a million to this only child.” 

Mildred frequently met Charles Fontebrau in 
the days which followed, and their friendship 
grew stronger. There was much satisfaction in 
talking over the events which occurred in the 
time which had elapsed since they met one an- 
other, and an equal amount in talking of what 
the future held, for Charles Fontebrau seemed 
to be of the same opinion as Mildred in many 
things. She often asked herself, though, if this 
Platonic friendship (which she had hitherto so 
strongly believed in) would continue. In Charles 
Fontebrau’s nature she saw many qualities which 
she admired; yet, on the other hand, she saw 
many defective ones, which counterbalanced the 
good ones. Her keen perception told her there 


A Rejected Lover. 


1 77 


were many weak points in his character — a desire 
to lean on others — and even though he wished it 
she knew it would be impossible for him to enlist 
his sympathies with her when he did not follow 
her profession. 

But Charles Fontebrau, who was of an impul- 
sive temperament, who formed conclusions with- 
out deliberation, and who acted hastily — did he 
look upon this Platonic friendship in the same 
light in which Mildred did? 

The hands of the clock pointed to after five 
one night, and Mildred was just about to close her 
desk, when the office door was opened by — 
Charles Fontebrau. 

“I was in the building, Miss McElroy, so I 
thought I would drop in and tell you of my good 
success. I have been appointed Master in Chan- 
cery. I suppose, too, you will regard it with 
disfavor because of the fact that you will have 
to meet me a little more than formerly/’ There 
was a winning smile upon his face, and he con- 
tinued : “Yet, I do not think I shall always con- 
tinue to practice law in Chicago, for, despite the 
success I have had here, I know I would do bet- 
ter among my own people.” 

“I think you are quite right, Mr. Fontebrau, 
in thinking you would do better in the South ; 
your abilities would be recognized much sooner 


i 7 8 


Mildred McElroy. 


than in one of the large cities of the North. But 
you speak of your presence being disagreeable to 
me, and I am quite sure you made the statement 
just to provoke me for a sarcastic answer. So I 
will keep my views from you and you can guess 
what they are. I am sorry I will be with you 
only for a few more days. I have now completed 
two years of University work by study in the 
University College evenings and Saturday after- 
noons in the Fine Arts Building; but the 
remaining two years I will have to take in the 
University; so I suppose there is no other alter- 
native but to close my desk and forget all about 
legal phraseology for a time. I do not doubt but 
what I can do nearly as good newspaper writing 
now as I could do after that time, but that is not 
the matter in question; it is the fact that my 
work will not be given the precedence it would 
if I were to possess a literary degree.” 

“Why, Miss McElroy, I cannot bring myself 
to think you are going away. It seems to me 
you will not think the same then as you do now.” 

“But why do you think I would be different, 
Mr. Fontebrau? I am sure a couple of hard 
years’ work will not hurt me.” 

“Oh, it is not that exactly. I was only thinking 
on some plans I had in mind which I fear you 
will not sanction if I wait until then. You must 


A Rejected Lover. 


179 


know it, Miss McElroy, I want you when those 
two years are over — I want you to come with me 
to the Southland, for I love you. I cannot help 
it. The years which I have known you have taught 
me to. Oh ! Mildred, you would not be dissatis- 
fied to do it, would ” 

“I do not want you to press me further, Mr. 
Fontebrau. I cannot listen and I fear to wound 
your feelings. You do not know your mind. You 
think you love me, but you do not; and I can 
see that in future years, when the novelty of 
early fancies had worn away, you would see many 
things about me with which you would be dis- 
pleased.” 

A solemn stillness followed her words, broken 
only by the clock ticks. 

‘T never thought, Miss McElroy, that a few 
moments could so shatter the hopes which I had 
so long cherished.” 

“But it is for the best, Mr. Fontebrau, and 
you will be my friend still.” 

“It is as you say, Miss McElroy. 

His hand took hers — a click or two on mosaic— 
the opening and shutting of the elevator door — 
and Mildred was alone, alone to think and ponder 
over how much the last few moments had 
wrought. 

Would Charles Fontebrau soon forget her? Or 


180 Mildred McElroy. 

would she linger in his memory forever, and 
when he thought of those words she had uttered, 
would a dart of pain pierce the heart’s weak ten- 
drils ? 

And while Mildred watched through the win- 
dow in the twilight, which was fast engulfing the 
pigeons hovering about the great black corner pil- 
lars of the building, within the gates of the 
“Crescent City” under a broad-leafed palmetto, a 
black-haired girl looked long and hard at the 
gypsy warning on a gum wrapping paper, which 
told her she would marry a Northern man. “I 
wonder what he looks like?” thought the girl, 
“and if he ever loved another?” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


THE STOCK BROKER’S WARD. 

It was later than Mildred’s usual hour this 
morning, and after dropping some pennies to 
the newsboy in the Hyde Park station, she hastily 
caught up a Record-Herald and hurried through 
the door to board a coming Illinois Central Ex- 
press train. There had been a phenomenal raise 
in copper and Mildred read with avidity the stock 
notes with which she had been familiarized so 
long. 

“Park Row — Central Station,” said the con- 
ductor, and Mildred folded her newspaper, rested 
her arm on the windowsill and looked out yonder 
over the boulevard. The seat directly in front 
of her had just been vacated and in a moment a 
young man of lithe build, dressed in serge suit, 
and noticeably white linen, dropped carelessly 
into it. Conscious of some one’s presence before 
her, Mildred turned her eyes from the window 
upon the stranger, only to find them fastened 
rather peculiarly upon her. 

“I wonder where he has ever seen me,” thought 
Mildred; “there is certainly something about me 


Mildred McElroy. 


182 

which interests him. I would like to know what 
his profession is, and if he gets off at Randolph 
street. I will walk slowly behind him, just to 
verify my opinion. I think he is a professor in 
the Chicago University, and will get off at Ran- 
dolph street, and take a Cottage Grove avenue 
car out to the Plaisance.” 

“Van Buren;” the young man looked at her 
again half-askance, and then at the pocketbook 
lying in her lap, and walked quickly out of the 
train. 

“I am beat on my guess for once,” thought Mil- 
dred, laughing, “but maybe he is a professor of 
music, and will end his journey at Steinway Hall 
or the Chicago Musical College; he is certainly 
not a Board of Trade man, or a salesman in 
Siegel-Cooper’s or Rothschild’s.” 

When Mildred got up at the Randolph street 
station something dropped at her feet, and on 
picking it up she found it to be the piece of 
paper with the day’s memorandum which she had 
put in her purse. 

“It must have been on my lap,” she thought, 
“and I wonder if he read this stuff : 

“Write Evening Post about next serial. See 
Managing Editor — Journal Office — 5 :3o o’clock.” 

She little thought, though, that ’ere she had 
reached the Washington street side of the County 


The Stock Broker’s Ward. 183 

building that Malcolm Montgomery was looking 
up at this same individual and saying: 

“You have not been in to see me of late, Arthur. 
What has the world been doing to you ?” 

The young reporter drew a chair close to the 
stock broker and said : “Everything has gone well 
with me ; have been out to Springfield doing a 
little legislative reporting, that is all.” 

“And you would not have come in to see me 
this morning either, I warrant,” said the broker, 
quizzically, “if it had not been that you wanted 
to get the state of the day’s market.” 

The face of the young man lit up by a benign 
smile as he answered : “I will never forget, Mr. 
Montgomery, what you have done for me ; death 
alone can take away that remembrance.” 

Arthur Fairfield was an orphan, and this morn- 
ing Malcolm Montgomery’s mind went swiftly 
back ten years and he saw before him again the 
thin, almost-starved looking face of the boy in 
the shabby black clothes, who had come before 
him in answer to his advertisement in the Tribune 
for office boy. Malcolm Montgomery saw a su- 
periority in his nature then which marked him 
as being different from the other urchins who 
stood beside him waiting for their chance. From 
the humble guise of an errand-boy he had passed 
to the next higher step — copying clerk, and, as 


184 


Mildred McElroy. 


time went on, the broker discovered that the boy 
in whom he had first taken only a charitable in- 
terest was well deserving of his attention ; “he is 
not fit to be a mere clerk,” thought the stern man, 
“and if he wants learning it shall never be denied 
him while I live. What good does my vast store 
of wealth do me when no one profits by its re- 
ward.” While the man watched the boy’s prog- 
ress, he saw that the young mind was unfolding 
in a remarkable way. He was not tempted to 
enter into bucket-shop deals like the other set- 
tling-clerks with whom he worked ; while their 
thoughts were upon wild, inconceivable specula- 
tions, his were upon books. 

It was on an August morning that the broker 
called Arthur to him and much surprised him by 
asking if he did not wish to take a college course. 
“You have studied diligently,” said the man — 
“you have talents. Do not bury them. You never 
shall while Malcolm Montgomery holds the tape.” 

“I prefer some one of the Eastern Colleges,” 
this was all the broker said, after handing him a 
check with which would have taken Arthur years 
to earn.” 

It was in the Columbia University in New 
York city that Arthur Fairfield began a course 
in Commerce and Politics, and as month after 
month went by, college discipline tended to 


The Stock Broker’s Ward. 185 

strengthen the great literary ability of which the 
boy was possessed. During his senior year he 
wrote many urgent letters as to whether he would 
return to Chicago or remain in New York city. 
The West was not as advanced in many ways, 
the broker reasoned, as the East, and Arthur’s 
career, he was certain, would be much smoother 
where he did not have long-established aristoc- 
racy with which to compete. “Yes, I will bring 
him back to Chicago,” he thought, “and my life 
will be much happier, too, if he is near me.” 

So life’s tide had ebbed and flowed. To Arthur 
Fairfield it had brought success in the newspaper 
field. To Malcolm Montgomery, no reverses in 
the purchase or sale of stocks. This morning 
“there was nothing doing,” as the broker termed 
it, on either La Salle or Wall street, and he, there- 
fore, appreciated the opportunity of a pleasant 
chat with Arthur. 

“I am considering the offer of foreign corre- 
spondent in the French capital,” the young man 
was saying, “but hardly think I will take it un- 
less ” 

“Oh, Cousin Malcolm !” and their conversation 
ceased at the sound of a girlish voice. 

“What is troubling you, my girl,” said the 
broker. 

“Oh, I was down town shopping,” she replied, 


1 86 


Mildred McElroy. 


“and thought I would come in and see if I could 
not make you promise to take me to the football 
game to-morrow — it’s between St. Vincent’s and 
St. Ignatius, you know ; no school this week, and 
if I can’t go, guess I will go out of town to 'kill 
time.’ ” 

The girl was not a day over sixteen, and her 
white, pink-flushed face nestled down comfor- 
tably in her furs, while the white plumes on the 
grayish-blue hat shaded the brown eyes which 
looked laughingly into those of her older cousin. 

“I guess we’ll arrange to entertain you all right, 
Alice,” answered the broker. “This is my baby 
cousin, Arthur,” he continued, “and you see I 
have just reason to be proud of her. She has 
come to me all the way from the Southland to 
finish her school work.” 

The girl looked admiringly at Arthur Fair- 
field’s intellectual face, and as she did so a thought 
flashed into the broker’s mind. “Alice — if I could 
only make her Arthur’s wife, instead of being 
compelled to see her take up with some one like 
Charles Fontebrau, and I know the fellow is do- 
ing everything in the world to get her. Eight 
hundred thousand dollars in her own name — what 
would eight hundred thousand dollars do for 
Arthur Fairfield? I will mention the subject to 
him to-day when I go to lunch. I do not care to 


The Stock Broker’s Ward. 


187 


see any poor attorney, in whom I have no particu- 
lar interest, basking in the orange groves of any 
one to whom I am related, if my interference 
would help matters any. 

“ Where shall it be, Arthur?” he said, glancing 
at the clock, whose hands were pointing to 12.00 
o’clock. “Over at the Hamilton ?” 

“I think they can serve us,” answered the 
journalist; “their menu has been pretty good of 
late.” 

Then the two men left the office and walked 
down La Salle street in the direction of the club- 
rooms on Madison street. 

“Did you see my pretty cousin ?” said the 
broker, as he sipped at a glass of sherry wine. 

“Yes, I did, and presume, dear Montgomery, 
this is a gentle way you have of telling me I ought 
to ask her some day to be my wife. You have not 
gone into the match-making business, have you ? 
Although I would not be surprised now that 
Diamond Match is touching no,” and the young 
man laughed heartily. 

The broker smiled dryly as he answered : “You 
are getting too fond of puns, Arthur; the news- 
paper business is spoiling you ; but, coming back 
to my old subject, it would be a safe investment. 
Money means a great deal to you ; it would 
lift you into just the sphere that would be becom- 


1 88 


Mildred McElroy. 


ing to your rank, and, remember — the Creightons 
and Montgomerys can boast of their ancestry.” 

“You are proud of your race,” said Arthur 
Fairfield, with a touch of sarcasm ; but I can as- 
sure you right now, race, money and all, you 
could never induce me to marry such a wife. How 
could I spend my life with a woman of this 
type ? A flippant little flower whom I would grow 
tired of in a week. I shall never marry unless 
sometime I may chance to meet a woman whose 
sentiments are much the same as my own. If 
she possessed a strong intellect, was striving for 
the same citadels and sympathized with me and 
appreciated my work, then, Malcolm Montgom- 
ery, I would love her.” 

“I am afraid you would have a hard time find- 
ing her,” said the broker, “for ‘Garden City’ 
boasts too few of such regal beauties.” 

“Then I shall live in single blessedness like 
my benefactor,” said the journalist, pushing back 
his plate. 

“You cannot say that with justice, my boy,” 
answered the man, “for you have not seen my 
years, and when you have perhaps you will have 
met her ; at least, I hope such will be the case.” 

And he did hope so — unless he should meet 
that very one whom he knew if he ever did he 
would love, for was she not all Arthur Fairfield 
told him he wanted in a woman ?” 


The Stock Broker’s Ward. 


189 


“Ah! if he ever does,” thought the broker, 
sadly, “the web of my plans would be brushed 
away.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


PLANNING A JOURNALISTIC CAREER. 

“Great is Journalism. Is not every Able Editor a 
Ruler of the World, being a persuader of it, though self- 
elected, yet sanctioned by the sale pf his Numbers?” 

It was approaching the season of Commence- 
ment at the University on the Plaisance, and 
among a number of other college women, Mildred 
was going at her usual hour from Kelly Hall to 
Kent Theater — for it was final examination week 
for the seniors. 

Examination week — and in a few days Mildred 
would have earned the degree of Ph. B. After 
leaving college her intention was to follow the 
profession of Journalism and Reporting, and to 
this end she had studied much upon subjects 
which bore directly on journalistic work. From 
among numerous works she had selected for in- 
tense study, Darwin, for his thoughts on evolu- 
tion ; Ruskin, for art ; Carlyle, whose sole endeav- 
or was to exalt labor to a citadel, and Macaulay 
and Green, who have written history from the 
people’s point of view. She had written editori- 
als for the University paper, and short stories and 


Planning a Journalistic Career. 191 

articles which were printed by small journals ; 
but Mildred’s success did not flatter her. She 
realized fully the hardships which awaited her on 
the thorny paths of the newspaper field. She had 
read accounts in English books of the obstacles 
with which women meet on the press of the Old 
World, and of all the disadvantages incident to 
Fleet street and the Strand, and often wondered 
if she would encounter such opposition in taking 
legislative notes in Springfield as women do in 
the gallery in England. She wondered what 
work in the sphere of reporting would be open 
to her. She could not think of being a society 
reporter, that lot which inevitably falls to a 
woman who undertakes to do anything on the 
press. She could see nothing ennobling about 
the monotonous duties of interviewing fashiona- 
ble women as to their clubs, weddings, after- 
noon teas, etc. ; neither did she see any reason 
why her ability and experience in note-taking 
would not make her services valuable as a ver- 
batim reporter. She almost wished herself in 
England at the time Charles Dickens said he had 
trained that savage stenography; was reporting 
in Parliament and wallowing in words. She could 
imagine herself holding a note-book of narrow 
pages and a fountain pen while she performed 
commendably her part in taking a lecture. She 


192 


Mildred McElroy. 


would be member of a “ring” then, she thought, 
and would have gained an enviable reputation for 
never breaking it, for the hair-line notes of short- 
hand were sure to serve her quite as well as 
Woodfall’s memory did in the eighteenth cen- 
tury. 

She did not want to work on space. She 
wanted to baffle with the genuine every-day work 
of a beginning reporter. There would be dis- 
couragements, she well knew, and, on the other 
hand, there would be exciting struggles which 
would be sure to end in victories. There would 
be competitors whose ability and learning could 
not be questioned, yet Mildred hoped for the 
strength to surpass all these things and illuminate 
the path of literature in just such a brilliant way 
as John Shirley Brooks, John Russell, Charles 
Dickens or Justin McCarthy. 

“I want you to go with me to the theater to- 
night, Mildred,” said Mrs. Glendowen, a few 
weeks after Commencement. “To-night is the 
first of Richard Mansfield’s annual Chicago en- 
gagement; he will be at The Illinois. To see 
something of the world’s less serious side is some- 
times helpful mentally as well as physically, 
and you will wear one of my new wraps, 
too, for I mean to see that you are made 
very attractive. Mr. Montgomery will also at- 


Planning a Journalistic Career. 193 

tend the theater to-night with a journalist, a 
young man in whom he has a great deal of inter- 
est. Mr. Glendowen tells me that he was very 
poor, being at one time a clerk in Mr. Montgom- 
ery’s office. It was then that the broker took a 
great interest in him, and afterwards paid his 
way through Columbia University. This, no 
doubt, is why he estimates the young man’s quali- 
ties so highly, and is desirous that his niece, 
Alice, should marry him. He has great ideas of 
keeping strictly within his own circle of society. 
And, dear Alice! that frivolous child. She finds 
no more society in such a man as Fairfield than 
in a statue. 

“But we have been chatting too long. Henry 
has the carriage waiting for us now.” It was 
not yet eight o’clock when they crossed Michi- 
gan Boulevard, where rubber-tired hansoms and 
autos glided noiselessly, yet rapidly, along, and in 
a few moments coachmen were lifting the occu- 
pants out before the entrance of the theater near 
the Lake Front. It was to be a crowded house 
to-night, for it had been impossible to obtain 
tickets during the last four or five days. 

The box adjoining that of the Glendowen’s 
was Malcolm Montgomery’s, and Mildred soon 
found herself face to face with the broker. He 
was not alone, and when he turned to them and 


194 


Mildred McElroy. 


said, “Mrs. Glendowen, Miss McElroy — Mr. 
Fairfield,” Mildred was sure the young man in 
the well-fitting dress suit was the same one 
whom she recalled having seen on the Illinois 
Central train, and she knew now why he was so 
interested in the notation she had dropped. 

She was leaving the theater— leaving Arthur 
Fairfield and Malcolm Montgomery ; Arthur Fair- 
field she would perhaps never see again, and she 
was almost willing to confess that she cared to. 
And Malcolm Montgomery she would see again, 
and how much rather she would not. 

Mildred did not know Malcolm Montgomery’s 
thoughts as he sat alone to-night in his home on 
Castlewood Terrace, after this meeting at the 
theater: “I am sorry I was forced to introduce 
him to her. She seemed to exert a peculiar in- 
fluence over him — Arthur Fairfield, who has seen 
and been so popular with New York and Chicago 
belles. Mildred McElroy would not be the right 
sort of a wife for him. Why don’t he stay in 
the circle I put him in. I like Arthur, to be sure, 
but why cannot he see it would be much better to 
marry a woman of wealth ? Alice — I know I could 
make her love him ; but he does not seem to be 
able to appreciate one of her qualities. After all 
the annoyance I went to get him to take her 
here to-night he got out of it. I will not let him 


Planning a Journalistic Career. 195 

see Mildred McElroy again, though, if it is within 
my power to prevent it. He will meet her here 
somewhere, though, on these newspapers unless 
I can induce him to go to New York. Still, I do 
not know as she would care anything about him. 
Rumors have reached my ears that she refused to 
marry Charles Fontebrau — and poor Charles is 
everything one could expect in a man of his 
years ; but he has not the dollar,” and the broker 
brought his white-cuffed wrist down heavily on 
the arm of the mahogany chair. 

“A great surprise I would spring on these fel- 
lows to marry such a beautiful flower, and a 
woman who will some day be a glorious light in 
the world of letters. And would it not be a 
just reward for all I have suffered? Oh! my 
early life — I could never live through its torture 
again ! 


CHAPTER XXX. 


TOGETHER ON THE PRESS. 

“I thank the heavens that I have now found my call- 
ing, wherein with or without perceptible results I am 
minded diligently to preserve.” 

After leaving the University Mildred did not 
begin work as a regular reporter, but obtained a 
position with one of the large Court Reporting 
firms as assistant, and devoted some time to work- 
ing on one of the evening papers. She knew that 
by faithfully persisting in this course for a few 
months or a year she would become better fitted to 
perform the arduous duties which would fall to 
her as a reporter on any one of the large Chicago 
papers. 

Once again in the City Hall and County Build- 
ing, it renewed many associations for her former 
stenographic life. She inquired for Miss Ville- 
gas, and was told that she had been sent recently 
to the Philippine Islands as Government clerk. A 
friend handed Mildred a letter, which had been 
written previous to her departure across the Pa- 
cific, which had been misdirected and consequent- 
ly never reached its destination. Miss Villegas 


Together on the Press. 


197 


had noted in it many items of interest relating to 
her work, but at the end Mildred read through 
tear stains: 

“Although you may never have known it, Miss 
McElroy, I have loved Mr. Longstreet right along 
— from the first day I ever saw him, and now 
that he is married, you can imagine how blinded, 
how stunned I am — how torn and bleeding is my 
heart, and I am glad, indeed, to drown the en- 
gulfing sadness in a foreign land.” 

In the months which followed Mildred met 
again Arthur Fairfield in the literary and press 
clubs of the city, and she noted how very anx- 
ious he was to renew their acquaintanceship; he 
had been so glad to know that she understood 
his work, and when in the course of a conversa- 
tion he asked her if she wrote for the Evening 
Post, she was convinced that he remembered the 
Illinois Central train incident as well as she had. 
There was something which seemed to draw them 
closer to one another — something even more than 
the fact that they were advocates of the same 
profession. Yet, Arthur Fairfield, fearing that 
Mildred McElroy did not care for him, strived to 
keep it from her that he really did, and she ‘11 
turn, thinking perhaps he did not care as she did, 
concealed it in hopes that Arthur Fairfield would 
never know ; still neither could resist the tempta- 


1 98 


Mildred McElroy. 


tion of one another's society. The more Arthur 
Fairfield learned of Mildred’s energy and desire 
to be a factor in the newspaper world, the more 
interested he became in her welfare and found 
himself at times more ready to do for her than for 
himself ; and when at last an opening was made 
on the newspaper on which he was Chief Re- 
porter, he spoke to the Editor of Mildred, and 
succeeded in getting her into the Post. But his 
interest in her never tempted him to shield her 
from any of the hard tasks, which, if accom- 
plished, he knew would be the means of her 
gaining promotions. He examined her work with 
close scrutiny, severely criticising it if it deserved 
and praising it if it so warranted; and, on the 
other hand, Mildred experienced no greater de- 
light than to hand in an extraordinarily well-writ- 
ten article. 

Although Mildred was fast gaining a commen- 
dable record, both as a journalist and a reporter, 
at times she often felt the narrowness and hunger 
of the world — the world that had no interest in 
her except a passing one. She ofttimes asked her- 
self who would ever reap the harvest of her 
work, and what a long time even until these 
efforts would bear fruit. She wondered if she 
had drawn the outline for her course in life in the 
right way, and what Arthur Fairfield’s ideas of 


Together on the Press. 


199 


an exalted higher existence were, and if he did 
not long for the association of some one closer 
than a friend, as she sometimes did. If he found 
so much to confide in her, why would he not find 
help and strength in an intelligent wife, and why 
had he not found this individual before ? 

It was at this time, too that Mildred realized 
it was not long until she would have reached her 
ultimatum — that time in life which permits us to 
sit down and rest. It is then we will think of 
those who in our past life we may have thought- 
lessly discarded because we thought we would 
meet another if we would wait, some other who 
would offer us still more than the present one 
could. Ah ! what feverish days. When we knew 
not what true affection meant and stretched our 
will-power until every fiber of it groaned under 
the weight of its oppression, for if God created 
us to love another, we will love them, in spite of 
all that in life may come between ; but every day 
must have its sunset, and across ours we will see 
the rain-drops softly fall, and we will then wish 
we had never severed that attachment, for we 
smothered our feelings for rank and prestige and 
cannot do so now. We will think of that other 
and wonder if they have married some one else, 
or if they have joined that legion which sleep 
peacefully, not solicitous of earthly things. We 


200 


Mildred McElroy. 


will then wish we had never believed in a Pla- 
tonic friendship with that one in whom we could 
not help but place our hopes, and with a wearily- 
drawn breath turn to devote our efforts to the 
world, for well we know that if we tried to love 
another we could not do so and be happy. 

It was in this way Mildred looked on the pres- 
ent and mused on the future. Why did she care, 
she thought, what Arthur Fairfield thought of 
her? Why did she value his opinion so much — 
and if he did not love her — how rash it was to be 
following a delusion? 

She was thinking of these things to-night as 
she sat with Arthur Fairfield, and when she spoke 
of what might be open to her in fields farther 
away, he leaned forward in the moonlight to 
scan her face, but she involuntarily turned away 
from him. 

“After all that I have done for you, Mildred, 
would you leave ? It has hurt me to see you work 
alone, and I have wanted — Oh ! so much, to lift 
the heavy burden from your young shoulders, 
not with the object of deterring you in your work, 
but only to help you, and then let you go on just 
in the same way as before.” 

“But, Mr. Fairfield, I might do better were I 
left to rely on myself than to ” 

“Than to let me protect you for- 


And 


Together on The Press. 


201 


Arthur Fairfield drew Mildred McElroy to him. 
“You love me, Mildred ; you will not tell me 
that you do not. You have talked to me in this 
way because you fear that I do not care for you, 
for I have blindly kept it from you ; but, Oh ! how 
could you think I did not love you. We have 
never had occasion to question each other’s views 
in anything, and why should not our life be one 
grand ethereal sacrifice for one another? We 
will realize the grandeur of such a union in after 
years even more than we do now. You are satis- 
fied, Mildred, tell me ?” 

He lifted the flushed face close to his own, and 
when Mildred’s eyes looked into his it was to tell 
him that she did not doubt his promise. 

And little did she dream that it might fade 
away. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


THE BROKER’S DELUSION. 

“It is certainly getting serious/’ thought the 
broker, “and it seems to me at times I cannot 
give her up. Why has she so crept into my heart ? 
It seems everything went right when she was 
here. Really I believe her influence had much to 
do with my success. I have missed her in so 
many ways since she has left me. And — if ’twere 
only some one else who loved her — any one but 
Arthur — it would not be so hard to break it up. 
I have cherished the hope of her so long, that 
simply to think of her is an inspiration to my 
work. I cannot think of any reason, either, why 
she should not care for me. She seemed to feel 
badly the last day she left me ; or, was it simply 
the nervousness of leaving — her own selfish inter- 
ests more than mine? She does not act quite 
herself when I meet her at Glendowen’s, and I 
cannot perceive whether it is because her thoughts 
are on me, or that my presence is annoying to her. 
I do not think it is possible that Arthur Fairfield 
is anything to her yet except a friend, but I know 
well that he loves her, and it will be only a mat- 


The Broker’s Delusion. 


203 


ter of time until he tells her so, if he has not done 
so before. What her opinion of such a marriage 
would be I can hardly tell. I have examined 
closely into her writings of late, and find her 
thought tends toward the realistic more than the 
unreal, and that she invariably makes her char- 
acters give precedence to money. She most as- 
suredly knows that Arthur Fairfield could not 
give her a luxurious home. Imagine him driving 
his wife in a landau or an automobile !” And the 
broker smiled half-cynically as he watched the 
circling wreaths of smoke from his Havana. “I 
dare say, Arthur’s salary would not cover the 
cost of a chauffeur’s services. Yet, statistics show 
that women who write do not, as a rule, marry 
some one befitting their rank and prestige; but, 
all Arthur lacks is money. He will some day 
throw a glorious light in the world of letters,” 
and the broker sighed heavily as his mind dwelt 
upon the noble youth in whom he had placed so 
many hopes, and whom he feared he was begin- 
ning to think of as a rival. 

“I can only let things come and go as they 
will,” he murmured, half-aloud, “and if I see any 
further developments of a threatening nature I 
will plan some scheme by which they will be burst 
asunder, for I cannot afford to sacrifice my own 
happiness. Many times in life we are forced to 


204 


Mildred McElroy. 


do things which hurt us in order that we may 
get that which it is just and right for us to pos- 
sess. 

“But would it be that Mildred McElroy thinks 
I could not appreciate her efforts as Arthur would 
do? I will settle the whole matter by simply 
asking her to marry me. It will be unexpected 
to her ; at least, I think it will be. Maybe, though, 
she divines my thoughts more than she pretends 
to. It does not stand to reason she would prefer 
Arthur Fairfield to me. Why, how many times 
I have heard her express the desire to finish a 
University course in Milan or Madrid, and I — 
who can support any luxury — could I not give 
her the money with which to do it? It is not this 
alone — I can bestow upon her anything, every- 
thing — I would place upon her head a tiara of 
jewels — and Arthur, poor Arthur, he told me 
only the other day that his expenses were grow- 
ing equal to his salary. It does not seem possi- 
ble that a woman of her ethical vent of mind 
would give up to such a phantasm unless she 
would want to devote her life to work — her pre- 
cious life that I meant to guard and protect so 
zealously. 

“Yes, I must tell her; but when can I meet 
her? I have noticed that she has many engage- 
ments of late whenever I come. I wonder if she 


The Broker’s Delusion. 


205 


does it to avoid my presence? She does not be- 
lieve, maybe, that I could follow this occupation 
and understand what true grandness is in the 
feminine nature. Her wretched father did not 
possess my ideas of woman. How strange that 
Mildred should differ so from him. There is 
not the merest particle of his disposition inter- 
mingled with hers. Since her mother’s death she 
has been lonely, and I will appear to her in a 
higher light when her mind is in this state than 
I would if there was nothing troubling her. Yes, 
I will bring it to a focus.” 

But the thought of something just then came 
to the broker’s mind, and — Oh horrors ! “But the 
heavens cannot reveal a secret until the day of 
judgment. And is there a judgment? ‘Heaven 
and earth shall pass away, but my word always.’ 
Yet there is no hereafter; there is no world be- 
yond,” thought the broker. “I am merely re- 
peating what used to fall so easily from my lips. 
She thinks it, though — she thinks it — Mildred 
McElroy, that frail, beautiful woman, whose or- 
phan heart I long so much to cherish. Will she 
reprove me for not being a Christian? I have 
never told her that I professed any creed. I will 
tell her that I reverence everything that she does, 
and she will never find out my opinion on the 
subject. Glendowen annoys me when I come. 


20 6 


Mildred McElroy. 


He never thinks of my being ‘on the market’ for 
anything excepting grain or railroad stocks. He 
had to lay matrimonial schemes himself, but I 
suppose he never thinks of me in that light. I 
will ask him to take that New York trip off my 
hands Wednesday, and I will see her then when 
things are quiet, and I can get a chance to say a 
few words to her alone. Can she resist me ?” and 
the broker stood before a long mirror and gazed 
at an olive brow, large, piercing gray eyes, which 
threw forth melting glances, and a gracefully- 
poised head, over which blue-black hair lay in 
masses. The stately form fell back in the chair, 
and Malcolm Montgomery said decisively: “I 
am a man of strong character upon whom any 
woman might be proud to lean ; Arthur Fairfield 
is a boy.” 

When Malcolm Montgomery was announced 
in the drawing-room that evening Mildred came 
down reluctantly. It had been some time since 
her mother’s death, and she relieved the somber 
black by narrow bands of white at her wrists and 
throat. She drew her chair close beside the blaz- 
ing coal fire, and asked why she had not seen him 
in such a long time. 

“A long time, Miss McElroy,” said the broker ; 
“did you wish it shorter ?” 

And never did this man seem so strangely mag- 
netic as he was to-night. 


The Broker’s Delusion. 


207 


“It seemed a little long, and then I have not 
done a£ much writing, which has made me miss 
my really existing friends.” 

Mildred knew him to be always anxious to see 
anything which she had written, and rose to 
bring him the last number of a journal in which 
was one of her best productions. The broker 
took it from her and read with a pretended inter- 
estedness, while, in the meantime, his brain 
whirled in a chaos of thought : “It is an absur- 
dity ; I cannot bring myself down to the humilia- 
tion. I cannot leave myself a target for scoff — a 
sneer for these young people. I will assume the 
part of a friend, and that — she will think — would 
be only characteristic of my nature.” 

And again the broker bent his will, his will 
which he had trained to be so intensely flexible, 
and Mildred did not know that within his heart 
was burning the fire of selfishness which was be- 
ing fed to the highest ardor by worldly avarice 
when he asked her as to her approaching mar- 
riage with Arthur Fairfield. 

She was somewhat surprised at the question, 
and replied: 

“Then Arthur has told you?” 

“Yes, of course, Arthur has told me. He even 
asked my advice before his engagement, and you 


208 


Mildred McElroy. 


can guess, Miss McElroy, what I told him.” And 
with a friendly smile Malcolm Montgomery bade 
her good-night. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


THE OLD, OLD CAPER. 

The night following the broker threw himself 
into a chair, murmuring: “I cannot think it is 
a reality — I cannot think I have been foiled. It 
was only until I began to foster the hope that 
one day Mildred McElroy would be my wife that 
I could see the world held anything for me but a 
mockery, and now — now it is all ended; and so 
much harder to be ‘a spectator of other men’s 
fortunes’ after I have lost her. Yet, there is a 
chance still. If I could make her believe” — and 
a slow evolution of thought was stealing through 
Malcolm Montgomery’s mind. 

“I will convince Arthur that Mildred McElroy 
does not love him ; that she has deceived him, and 
he, who has always believed all I have ever told 
him, will not fail to give credence to what I tell 
him now.” 

And then the broker thought of the brilliant 
young journalist — thought how in days gone by 
he had never wished the covetous world to harm 
him by a single word, and now he was preparing 


210 


Mildred McElroy. 


to perform one of the most unpardonable wrongs 
that man could commit against fellow-man — en- 
deavoring to take from him the woman whom he 
loved. But the man thought on: “It is only a 
few people who cannot forget some one whom 
they have loved. I could not forget because I 
know the world so well that when I find some 
one whom I think worthy of my attachment I am 
not easily turned away.” 

“A gentleman to see you, Mr. Montgomery,” 
said the maid. “Shall I send him up?” 

“Yes, Bertha, right along, answered the 
broker. 

There was a light step on the stair, and the 
man half-guessed who it was. 

“Am going over to Powers,” said Arthur Fair- 
field, “and thought I would break in on your 
bachelor reveries by asking you to go with me. 
Mildred went to St. Louis yesterday, so I am 
rather lonesome.” 

At the mention of the name “Mildred” the 
broker’s face darkened. 

“You look gloomy, dear Montgomery,” said 
the journalist; “has anything Tun under’?” 

“No, my boy,” answered the man. “Ten thou- 
sand yesterday on Amalgamated. Is not that 
enough to make a fellow feel in high spirits?” 
And for a moment the broker’s eyes flashed as he 
thought of his hoard of money. 


The Old, Old Caper. 


211 


“There is no doubt you have ‘struck it lucky/ ” 
answered Arthur Fairfield, “but why, then, are 
you sad?” 

“Because, Arthur,” answered the man, “I am 
sorry for you. There is something I must tell 
you which I know will break in upon your serene 
mind in a frightful way. Then, too, I fear you 
will think me at fault when I am not. Do you 
not know that Mildred McElroy does not love 
you ?” 

“Mildred McElroy not love me?” said the 
young man, astounded. “Not love me — who has 
been telling you such stuff. Really, I think you 
are so fearful lest anything should harm me that 
you allow yourself to listen to incredible tales.” 

“Oh! Arthur,” said the man — “but the worst 
has not been told you. It is I who loves Mildred 
McElroy, and I have just reason to know my love 
is reciprocated. Did such thought never cross 
your mind, Arthur? Mildred McElroy is no in- 
sipid girl — she is a woman — a woman who has 
seen and met many men, those who possess in- 
tellect, those who possess money, and those who 
possess both.” 

“But,” said the young man, with a despairing 
look, “I cannot believe it. Mildred McElroy, who 
has told me she loved no other, could not deceive 
me in this way — Oh ! Malcolm Montgomery, how 


212 


Mildred McElroy. 


can I think she has deserted me, she whom I 
crowned as the model of womanhood ?” 

“Ah !” said the broker, “we can all change our 
minds, and neither must you blame Mildred Mc- 
Elroy. Money has been denied her in her young 
years. She looks upon it now as an idyl. You 
cannot give it to her, my boy, and you should not 
have asked her to be your wife — you should not 
have presumed to do it ; it was too much to ask 
for. She may love you, Arthur, in some ways 
better than she does me, but can you censure her 
for not wanting to put her life in the keeping 
of one who possesses naught but his intellect? 
Dissatisfaction would only be the result. 

“Come, Arthur,” he continued, advancing, and 
laying his hand on his shoulder, “I wish you 
would not let those grewsome thoughts prey upon 
your mind. Be glad of my good success !” 

But Arthur Fairfield only shook his head 
gloomily, and murmured : “I am unwilling to 
believe it; a dazed sort of feeling seizes on 
me. 

“Yet why do you press me further?” said the 
broker. “Will I have to show you the letter and 
the lock of hair like they do in the novels ?” 

Then the broker opened the private drawer of 
his desk, and on a narrow piece of white linen 
paper the young man read : 


The Old, Old Caper. 


213 


“Dear Malcolm : 

“You ask me if I am to marry Arthur Fair- 
field. How can you think I would for one mo- 
ment cherish the thought of giving up my pre- 
cious career to a struggling journalist? Yet 
Arthur does not know this. I have not the 
strength to tell him. Mildred.” 

The letter was not written with the pen — noth- 
ing but the signature, and that surely was hers. 
It never flashed upon Arthur Fairfield that it 
could be false. He did not know that Malcolm 
Montgomery had taken the paper upon which 
Mildred had thoughtlessly written her name, had 
inserted it in the typewriter and written upon it 
the few words which meant so much to Arthur 
Fairfield. It was an easy matter, yet Arthur 
never questioned but that the note came from 
Mildred McElroy’s hand, and so the broker knew. 

“I once asked her, Arthur, if she loved you — it 
was after she had promised to be my wife, for I 
thought that if she did I would persuade her to 
marry the man whom she really loved, rather than 
to make her life wretched just for the sake of 
money, and I — I would have been willing to have 
abided by it and suffered just as I have many 
times during life — But you see it clearly now.” 

The young man gave back the letter, and then 
said, with deliberation: “You love her?” 


214 


Mildred McElroy. 


“L,ove her,” answered the broker, “who could 
not love her? She is young, beautiful and intel- 
lectual; she is all that man could ask for in 
woman. She may have faults, and one of those 
faults might be the tendency to trifle with the 
hearts of others; but this is a frailty to which 
many of us are susceptible. Sometimes it is in- 
born in us, and we cannot help it. I never told 
you that her father killed my sister — he made her 
think he loved her — just as Mildred McElroy has 
made you think she loves you.” 

“Oh! Malcolm Montgomery!” exclaimed Ar- 
thur Fairfield, “it seems I cannot stay longer in 
this city in which nothing seems left for me now 
but wretchedness. It would tear my heart to see 
her again. How I wish I had never left the 
East ! I would never have seen her had I stayed 
there, and would have never known this sorrow. 
I wish you had let me struggled my way alone and 
not indulged me in so much , for you have placed 
me in your debt by so doing. I came back to 
Chicago because I thought you wished it, and 
now — what has it brought to me ?” 

“You are troubled,” said the broker, “and that 
is why you talk in this manner. When I gave 
you the money with which to complete a college 
course and to help you gain an established footing 
on the press it was done generously, and for no 


The Old, Old Caper. 


215 


other motive than that I might have the com- 
panionship of aspiring youth — some one who 
would be worthy of my confidence and assistance. 
It was not until I saw Mildred McElroy that I 
ever cared for any woman, and nothing could 
hurt me more, Arthur, than to see you take this 
so hard. If you feel like leaving Chicago now I 
would not wish to deter you. You will have no 
difficulty, I am sure, in gaining a firm foot-hold 
on some of the Eastern newspapers and, although 
it may not prove to be as prominent a position as 
the one you are holding here, you will feel better 
to be away, and will see qualities in some other 
whom you will learn to love just as you have 
Mildred McElroy.” 

The young man’s truthful black eyes looked 
into the broker’s uncertain gray ones. Then he 
answered, “Never,” and was gone. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


THE PARTED LOVERS. 

“Turn not away Thy face from me in the day when I 
am troubled; incline Thine ear unto me." 

Mildred was to have submitted this morning an 
important article, and Arthur had told her Sun- 
day to lay aside the copy and they would review 
it at an early hour the next day in the press-room. 
So Mildred sat down to her breakfast a little 
earlier than her usual hour, and tore open the 
wrapper on a copy of the Junior Journalist, which 
lay beside her plate. It was a heartrending quo- 
tation which she read on its frontispiece — from 
that quaint New England poet, Emily Dickinson : 

“We shall know why when time is over, and we have 
ceased to wonder why, 

God will explain our anguish in the fair school-room of 
the sky.” 

Yet much as it impressed her, Mildred thought 
of it idly, for she had no anguish. She had noth- 
ing about which to wonder why. Just then her 
eyes fell upon the unopened letter which had lain 
underneath the Journal. Wondering from whom 


The Parted Lovers. 


217 


it could be, she began to read it — but the hand- 
writing — the handwriting — whose was it but Ar- 
thur Fairfield’s? Tremblingly, with blurred vis- 
ion, she struggled to read the few words before 
her : 

“Mildred : 

“While you read this a Pennsylvania Special 
will be bearing me far from you. It is unneces- 
sary for me to tell you why I go, for you know 
better than I my reasons for so doing. Oh ! Mil- 
dred, you have hurt me — not for one day, but for 
a lifetime. A. F.” 

Ah! Mildred, do you succumb to such a sor- 
row as this in the manner that most women do — 
a sorrow which breaks in with such a vengeance 
upon your placidness of mind? Glance at the 
mirror yonder. Close your eyes and fold your 
hands. It is just as well to push aside that note 
and say: “I will forget it.” Take up your work 
in the same manner as you have done before, but 
alone, alone — yet, the Angel of Consolation repri- 
mands you. She whispers that God will help 
you. The same old energy comes back. See how 
well the work of to-day can be done, full of grati- 
tude for Him above, who has seen fit to send all 
afflictions. 

No one could have told Arthur Fairfield this. 


2l8 


Mildred McElroy. 


No one, Mildred thought, whom she knew, could 
have defiled himself so much as to say she be- 
longed to that class of women whom she con- 
demned — the artful and deceitful. Had not Ar- 
thur Fairfield often read the editorials she had 
written upon this subject ? Did he not know how 
much she detested this action in man, more so in 
woman, who should be the herald of virtue and 
truth? 

Then she thought of Malcolm Montgomery; 
but, ah! he loved Arthur Fairfield, she thought, 
and whom we love we cannot hurt. 

Yet now and then thoughts surged through her 
brain that the broker might have told him she 
was deceptive, with his own selfish purpose In 
view; but she thought this selfishness had not 
fastened itself upon him with much strength, al- 
though something told her that there might be 
lingering hopes in Malcolm Montgomery’s mind 
that if he could represent that Arthur did not lore 
her, and simply took a seemingly legitimate 
means of telling her of his departure she would 
soon learn to realize that one who would prove 
so unfaithful would not be worth remembering 
and would by her soon be forgotten. 

But she put the broker from her mind and 
only asked herself why Arthur Fairfield did not 
at least come and tell her all. He had known her 


The Parted Lovers. 


219 


so long — so long. Ah! it was a cruel blow, for 
she had learned to look to Arthur Fairfield for 
so much help ; and now that help had been taken 
from her, that help which she would have never 
missed had it not once been given her. 

She saw some one else in the Chief Repor- 
ter’s chair. She saw him severely criticising her 
descriptions and questioning the authenticity of 
her verbatim reports. She saw herself being as- 
signed to work which Arthur Fairfield would 
have never thought of giving her. She heard him 
telling her she must consent to do subordinate 
work until she would be prepared to fill even the 
place in which she now was; she heard him tell 
the editor that she had been favored by Arthur 
Fairfield and promoted to a round in the ladder 
of journalism which she was not capable of fill- 
ing. 

Yet, Mildred knew she must not picture the 
falling of this shadowy curtain. She must only 
live over again for a while those struggling child- 
hood years. She must think that the world would 
miss her were she gone — and then — she would 
have, indeed, a great purpose to live for. She 
would not permit this act of Arthur Fairfield’s to 
be even a chapter in her life — only a paragraph, 
which, being insipid and shallow, necessitated 


220 


Mildred McElroy. 


her throwing it out, for in her pure and faithful 
work there was no place for it. She would be 
thankful then, and doubly thankful when she 
thought of those who could not throw it out — 
those who had put their hearts wholly in the 
keeping of another. 

Again her mind dwelt upon that Psalm which 
had so often brought comfort to her in trouble ; 
and she knew it would bring it again : 

“Though I walk in the midst of trouble, thou wilt re- 
vive me. 

Thou shalt stretch forth thine hand against the wrath 
of mine enemies, and thy right hand shall save 
me.” 

So again she learned to drink at the Spring of 
Consolation, and lifted her eyes heavenward as if 
in hope of seeing Him who lent his promise ; for 
she was in the midst of trouble, and she leaned 
upon that right hand for she knew it would save 
her. 

She kept the article which Arthur Fairfield was 
to have corrected with her — that article which 
was written upon “The Reciprocal Duties of Man 
and Women”, and if she had only known where 
Arthur Fairfield was, she would have sent him 
that manuscript, and when he broke its seal and 
saw the pages which the pen had never touched 
save for the few corrections made by his own 


The Parted L,overs. 


22 i 


hand at the top, she knew he would love her as he 
used to, for this would be enough. 

But Mildred knew not, nor could she ever hope 
to know, where Arthur Fairfield was. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


RESIGNATION. 

“The road is clear now,” thought the broker 
in the night Arthur Fairfield left. “She will, no 
doubt, ask me to help her penetrate the matter, and 
I must be prepared to do nothing which would 
give me away. I shall have to be deeply sympa- 
thetic, dignified, and do nothing except with the 
utmost reserve, because I know she does not 
fully realize now, and it will take her some time 
to do so, that he is lost to her forever ; and if I 
pressed matters too quickly she might think it 
was I who influenced Arthur Fairfield. I will 
wait a few months and then I can perfect my 
plans. She will find a certain exultation, too, in 
possessing so much wealth, for what one is there 
of us, who, after being hurt, does not long for 
satisfaction? And Mrs. Malcolm Montgomery — 
what an air of aristocracy the very name imparts. 
But I will watch her very closely” — and the 
broker’s face grew darker — “and if I see there 
would be absolutely no use in asking her, why I 
suppose I might better give it up than to stoop 
to take a refusal. I could not undergo it; my 


Resignation. 


223 


pride would quell under its very mediocrity ; but 
she will not look upon me with disfavor. I am 
confident that Mildred McElroy loves me.” 

But when Mildred related to him all that had 
occurred, and asked if he thought there would 
be no hope of ascertaining where Arthur Fair- 
field was, and while he noted the pleading, care- 
worn look which was fastening itself upon her 
face it wrung his conscience. She spoke 
of how in after years she might see him ; of how 
she could in no way forget him; of her desire 
to be correspondent in some foreign country — 
anything she said which would smooth the few 
short remaining years, and then — surely she 
would know all in the world beyond. 

And when the broker heard all this, his heart 
sank heavier and he knew how useless it would 
be to even wait. 

Yet so artfully had he concealed his thoughts 
from Mildred that if at any time she thought it 
possible he might have been concerned in what 
had happened, she had ceased to think so now, for 
the broker had hid everything just as he had 
planned to do if he found Fate against him, “for 
would it not be better,” thought he, “to be Mil- 
dred McElroy’s friend than her enemy?” 

So slight furrows came in Mildred’s young 
brow, and silvery cords mingled themselves with 


224 


Mildred McElroy. 


those of sunnier hue, and all because she could 
not forget, and when a year had passed — a year 
from that very night which was the happiest in 
her life, she rested again in those anxious, willing 
arms and looked into those earnest, pleading eyes 
which made her say : “Arthur, I cannot give you 
up.” 

But how things had changed. And she had 
planned to do so much — so much that she could 
never do alone. They had thought to have edited 
a newspaper together ; to have achieved the great- 
est things possible for toilers on the press of 
America — but now — where was Arthur Fairfield ? 

Did he ever say: “Where is Mildred Mc- 
Elroy ?” or, did he love another? Mildred only 
crushed these thoughts from her, and when she 
saw those outstretched arms and the broad 
shoulder to which he drew her head, not in a boy- 
ish way, but with all the tenderness and firmness 
of manhood, she only pressed her pen closer to 
the paper and struggled to write. Ah ! and how 
hard it was to write without him and write well ; 
for there are two kinds of writing. One is simplv 
to write — to write what one has to ; the other is 
to write that which will gain commendation. And 
Mildred did not wish the work which came from 
her pen to fall unnoticed ; but there was no such 
thing as ever seeing Arthur Fairfield again. Fie 


Resignation. 


225 


was gone. Still, she could not forget the many 
times those trusting black eyes had looked down 
into hers and told her to rest, and she had done so. 
for there was something so co mmandin g, so gen- 
tle in those words; but no one told her to rest 
now. The proud, listless ship of the sky sailing 
above and the cooing of the turtle-doves below 
in their cots only served to recall taunting days 
which she would fain forget. The waves of the 
untroubled waters beyond lapped against the gray 
stones of the breakwater, and sobbed a little plain- 
tively over the iron bands which spanned the sea 
edge. And then she thought of the many times 
she had watched that same moonlit water with 
Arthur Fairfield and noticed not the sobbing of 
the blue, half-warm waves, for they held no mel- 
ancholy secret for her then. 

And just now a sweet rhythm of chimes broke 
in upon the growing night and clanged warning- 
ly from the old brown-stone church's turret. It 
was for the last service, and Mildred turned her 
steps toward its ivy-covered walls to kneel again 
in prayer and ask what she had many times done 
before — the righting of a grievous wrong. 

“Miss McElroy" — and in a moment a girl's 
arm was within hers. “I was on my way to Ves- 
per and thought I would ask you to go with me 
if you did not have a Bible class to teach to-night 


226 


Mildred McElroy. 


in your own church. I must have your advice 
on an awful grave subject.” 

Mildred scanned Alice Creighton’s youthful 
face, only to find a look of deep anxiety upon it. 
The little heiress is older now than when we saw 
her in the broker’s office some years ago, there 
being a womanly demeanor combined with the 
girlish attitude, and Mildred felt a certain sense 
of grandeur in listening to her relate her tale of 
trouble which she so willingly poured into her 
ear. 

“Miss McElroy,” she continued, “you must 
not mention it to anyone, because Cousin Mal- 
colm opposes me so, but I want to marry Charles 
Fontebrau, and don’t you think it is better for me 
to than to die heartbroken ? Oh ! he is so promis- 
ing, so intelligent, and the only reason Cousin 
Malcolm does not want me to marry him is that 
he hasn’t money ; and I — I would love him if he 
did not have a dollar. Then, too, he is going back 
to New Orleans to practice law and that pleases 
me so much, for I love my people, and I think 
Charles loves me better because of this fact. 
Southerners are so loyal to their own. It seems 
we were predestined for one another, although 
my church teaches me to believe not in this doc- 
trine. 

“I once read a fortune tale which told me I 


Resignation. 


227 


would marry a Northern man, and Charles an- 
swers this description just exactly, too; it said he 
once loved another, but had forgotten all about 
her; and just for curiosity’s sake I asked Charles 
if he ever had a sweetheart other than I, and he 
looked at me so earnestly and laughed, but did 
'not say either way. Do you suppose, Miss Mc- 
Elroy, that he ever has had, and if he did, would 
it matter? 

Mildred patiently listened to it all, and then 
gently assured her that it would be well to forget 
the gypsy’s warning, because if Charles Fonte- 
brau ever did love another she was either dead or 
long since forgotten. She told her not to care 
what Cousin Malcolm thought of him, and to be 
ever mindful of her own happiness. 

When a few months later she received the an- 
nouncement card of a New Orleans wedding, she 
looked forward to the southward journey with 
pleasure, for there was gratification at seeing the 
happiness of others, even though to her the days 
were only sorrow-laden, still cutting with Re- 
membrance’s scythe her young, undying love, yet 
failing each time they tried to bind its scattered 
sheaves when he who owned the harvest came not 
to lay his claim. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


A CONVERSION. 

“I expect to pass through the world but once; if, 
therefore, there be any kindness I can show, or any 
good thing I can do to any fellow human being, let me 
do it now. Let me not defer or neglect it, for I shall 
not pass this way again.” 

“What has it availed me ?” thought the broker, 
as he rolled up the cover of his desk. “It has not 
made her love me. She persists in remembering 
him, even though she has every proof that he has 
been false to her. How could I ever have thought 
she meant to offer me anything but friendship? 
Friendship — what a mocking word it is ! Once I 
thought if she were to die, I could never survive 
it, but now — what would Death be? What a 
soothing, satisfying thing it is ! What a solace it 
would be to look at her dead and silent.” 

“Call !” — the broker turned and saw a Western 
Union messenger boy. 

“You are at your wit’s end this morning, lad,” 
said the man, as he wrote on a telegraph blank : 

“Northern Pacific 109. Market steady. Ad- 
vise buying 5000 shares.” 


A Conversion. 


229 


“Here, here, Western Union,” said the book- 
keeper as he clutched the blue shoulder. “Let me 
see that. Why, Montgomery, where is your head. 
That message was sent at four o’clock last night 
and an answer received before you went home.” 

“H’m, I do remember now,” said the broker, 
pushing his hat back on his head. “I was think- 
ing I had not sent it.” 

“You are not well, anyway,” answered the 
bookkeeper ; “your face is ghastly and your pulse 
beating wildly. I know that you are threatened 
with a fever. Suppose I order a carriage to take 
you to the hospital ; there would be no use of 
your going home; you would not get the right 
kind of medical assistance there.” 

“Maybe you are right, Jackson,” answered the 
man. “I hope, though, it is nothing serious.” 

“My judgment was correct in thinking you 
should come here,” said the bookkeeper, when 
the carriage stopped before the hospital and he 
noticed in what a feeble, termbling manner the 
broker walked up the steps. 

“But you will keep things in line, Jackson, until 
I get back,” he said faintly, after ordering a room 
from the sister at the door. 

“Do not worry about buying stocks. Get bet- 
ter,” and the bookkeeper pressed his hand. 

When the consulting physician pronounced the 


230 


Mildred McElroy. 


disease which had taken such a firm hold on the 
man, “typhoid fever,” Malcolm Montgomery’s 
face grew whiter than the pillows, and neither 
did the days which followed restore a life-like 
color. The physicians could have no hope when 
the patient exhibited no desire to get better, and 
the nurses reported no encouraging results. 

It was late one afternoon when the house doc- 
tor stood in the door of the sick man’s room and 
remarked to his sister: “It is the worst case on 
this floor, Katharine. The man’s mind wanders 
so, and he talks on such strange subjects. At 
times, though, he is perfectly rational, yet seems 
to long for some one who will counsel him, 
and what he wants counsel on is more than I 
can divine. He is rich, very rich, a stock broker, 
I think they say. There are a few immediate 
friends who come to see him, but for to relieve 
him in the way of which I have spoken their 
efforts are of no avail. 

“His name?” said Katherine Marsden. 

“Montgomery,” answered the Doctor. 

“Montgomery!” exclaimed the woman. “Why, 
Harry, I know he is one of the Montgomerys I 
knew long ago in New Haven. His countenance 
seemed familiar, but of course I could not place 
him after all these years — he has changed so 
much. Dear little Flora’s brother! And to be 


A Conversion. 


231 


sure he is a broker. Many times the boy has 
told me of his dreams of Wall or La Salle street.*' 

“Then, Katherine/’ said the Doctor, “a few 
kind words from you might help him, and he 
would, no doubt, be glad to see you. I really 
believe something dreadful is preying on the 
man’s mind, and when this delirium has passed, 
if I think his condition warrants, I want you to 
go to him.” 

“It is too bad I have not more time,” thought 
the woman, who was taking an important part 
at a meeting of the National Federation of 
Teachers, which was held in Chicago. “But I 
will let some matters go which are not of so 
much gravity and see him, for it would be more 
satisfaction to me to gather one faltering soul 
into the fold of that Great Federation above than 
attending all the federations that could be held on 
this earth.” 

And Katherine Marsden saw Malcolm Mont- 
gomery and told him of old times in New Haven, 
and the sick man stretched out his hand and 
grasped hers warmly. 

“Oh, yes, Miss Marsden,” he said feebly, “I 
remember you, and most of all the comments you 
used to make on my essays. And you are doing 
that yet?” 

“Yes,” said the teacher gently, “and I suppose 


232 Mildred McElroy. 

I shall continue to do it until I am transferred to 
the schoolroom to which we must all some time 

t> 

go. 

“Yet, it was Flora,” the sufferer went on, “who 
loved you even more than I. You know of her 
death?” and the man folded his thin hands 
together wearily. 

“Oh, yes,” answered the teacher, “but you must 
not talk of that now, Malcolm. She is so much 
better off — so much better off than either you or 
I. Oh, yes; I loved the child, and ofttimes re- 
prove myself for wanting her to live in this 
wicked world just that she might be with me.” 

“But, Miss Marsden, Miss Marsden,” said the 
man, “Flora did not die as most of us die; she 
pined away; her heart was broken by a wretch, 
torn and broken. No one could realize how it 
hurt me then. Father in such a helpless condi- 
tion, and so much devolving upon me — and then 
all the hopes I had put in Flora shattered in that 
way. Miss Marsden, it was something which 
you yourself could not forgive, had you ever lived 
through it.” 

“Malcolm,” answered the woman, “it hurts me 
to hear you talk in this manner. You must think 
that perhaps there are some who once bore the 
same sorrow that you had, and yet they bore it — 
and with God’s help will bear all like sorrows 


A Conversion. 


233 


with a Christian resignation. I knew Willard 
McElroy’s nature even better than you, Malcolm, 
for I once knew his father — once knew him in 
the same way your sister did his only son, and 
in my mind — I cannot tell you for how long — 
there existed an empty space, but the years have 
filled it with good doings, until now my heart is 
welling with praises of Him who has seen fit to 
send all these things.” 

“Such talk is fruitless to one like me,” said 
the broker ; “I cannot forgive such acts. Oh ! 
when I live over such a life a frenzy seizes on my 
soul.” 

“You know not the ways of the Christian.” 
answered the teacher, “you have never learned 
to lean upon an arm which you cannot see. There 
is a gentle solace in this sort of help. When once 
we learn to realize what it is, all earthly help 
seems weak and futile, and we wonder why it is 
we never thought to lean before. Then, too, why 
do you talk of revenging the departed. ‘Re- 
venge is mine,’ saith the Lord.” 

“I do not think, Miss Marsden,” answered the 
man faintly, “that I will realize what earthly 
things are much longer. I think it is only the 
matter of a few days until I am in that world 
which I have every reason to believe there exists, 
because as for an Ever-Seeing Being — I once 


234 


Mildred McElroy. 


thought it was a boy — but a boy’s thoughts are 
not original; he only thinks what someone else 
has instilled into his young veins.” 

The teacher’s face grew sad, for she was think- 
ing — thinking of those days in New Haven when 
Malcolm Montgomery was only a schoolboy and 
had handed to her his essay on “The Storm.” 
The boyish words expressed that if there were 
no other fact to prove the existence of an Om- 
nipotence, the awe-struck feeling which the storm 
inspires in us all was enough to prove it; and 
how this simple, crude, childish philosophy had 
preyed upon the teacher’s soul. But now the 
boy was gone. She was at the deathbed of the 
man, and all these faithful thoughts of his had 
fled. She could not refrain, though, from tell- 
ing him of the simple incident, and while the man 
listened he turned his head as if in an effort to 
forget past things. 

“In my life, Miss Marsden,” said the broker 
when he spoke again, “there has been something 
which has killed that belief. Something — that 
even though I wished it — prevents my believing 
that I could ever embrace the Christian faith. 
Then, too, what is there in the Bible to strengthen 
a man who for years has not been able to read a 
word of Scripture except with disgust ? There is 
nothing to lean on in those pages.” 


A Conversion. 


235 


“Ah ! Malcolm,” said the teacher “have you not 
thought upon the words : ‘Though my sins be red 
as scarlet, they shall be made as white as snow ?’ ” 

“Yes,” answered the sick man, “but if He 
wishes us to be free of sin why does He send us 
those dreadful afflictions which would make any 
man sin?” 

“Yet you know the rest,” answered Katherine 
Marsden: ‘Though He slay me, yet I will trust 
in Him.” 

The man did not speak again. He was only 
thoughtful. “If — if these sins could be for- 
given,” he was thinking ; “if there really is ‘more 
joy in heaven o’er one repentant sinner than 
ninety-nine just/ ” and the broker sank back. “I 
heard them say last night there was no hopes of 
my getting better. I — there is a strange feeling 
comes over a man’s soul if — if he has time to 
realize he must leave this world in only a few 
hours. I wish I could relieve myself of them 
in any way. Oh ! if there was only someone to 
tell them to — someone who would never tell an- 
other — I might — ” 

And at five o’clock Katharine Marsden stole 
into the room and placed upon the table a cru- 
cifix. 

“When will he come ?” said the broker. “Draw 
the curtain and let me see if the day has yet 
faded.” 


236 


Mildred McElroy. 


But the gentle woman only pulled the lace 
closer and said softly: “I can hear his footstep 
now ;” and she pressed between the thin hands a 
small morocco book, and stamped upon it in gold 
letters the broker read, “The Key of Heaven.” 

The priest was left alone — left alone with a 
man upon whose shoulders the heavy weight of 
sin was resting, “but I will relieve him,” thought 
the man of God, “just as I have relieved many 
others;” so he knelt and prayed that the sinner 
might tell him all, all that in this life he should 
not have done. 

When the house physician came in an hour 
later the patient slept, and upon his face was im- 
printed the insigna of silent, waiting hope, and 
he was breathing lightly as if his thoughts were 
on that land to which he must soon go. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


UNITED. 

“Where am I?” said Malcolm Montgomery. 
“I have been waiting all this time for Mildred 
McElroy to write a wire.” 

“You are in a weak condition,” answered the 
nurse, “and must not allow business affairs to 
interfere with your getting better. It is now 
near morning, and you have been in this uncon- 
scious state since midnight.” 

“But I was thinking, thinking of something I 
must do. Do not fail to send these two mes- 
sages,” he continued, as he scribbled a few words 
on the piece of paper he had requested the nurse 
to bring him. “Do not fail me, I cannot die with- 
out seeing them. Oh ! and I am so much weaker, 
so much weaker this morning.” The man’s 
voice died into a whisper ; he closed his eyes and 
only stirred upon the pillows at the tinkling of a 
soft bell announcing the approach of the Sacred 
Host. In a moment the halls were silent. The 
white-capped sisters preceded the young priest. 
Softly they entered that magnificent chamber, 
and in the dim candle light knelt by the bedside 


238 


Mildred McElroy. 


of the dying; “Domine non sum dignus.” Mal- 
colm Montgomery clasped his hands*, and while 
he prayed that that one and last request would 
be granted two messages were flashing over the 
wires. 

And twenty hours from the time a Western 
Union lad entered the pressroom of one of New 
York’s largest dailies the return limited had 
brought Arthur Fairfield again to Chicago. 

Hastily he ordered a carriage. “To the St. ’s 

Hospital,” he said to the driver, and was hurried 
swiftly away. 

Dim lights stole from the broad windows of the 
great building, and mingled with the breaking 
lines of day, which slanted over the granite, while 
in their blended light the blue-coated officer 
silently kept his vigil. “You have only a few 
moments left,” said the sister, as she led the 
way down the corridor. “The Last Sacrament 
has again been administered.” 

Arthur Fairfield entered the room where on 
the snow white linen the broker lay dying. “I 
knew you would come, Arthur,” he said weakly, 
as he stretched out his thin, white hand. I knew 
it would not be denied me. But Mildred — she 
is not here — yet, if I — if I should go before she 
comes you will not forget to tell her all. Oh, I 
have sinned, Arthur, and doubly so, and the sor- 


United. 


239 


row I have brought upon you was the outcome 
of a sordid, warped ambition. I thought I couid 
not give her up, and so much did my selfishness 
enwrap me that I realized not the greatness of 
my sin. Ah ! and Arthur, you never knew my 
early life; you never knew its torn and shat- 
tered days ; you never knew what made me such 
a cold and hardened wretch. No, you never 
knew her, my sweet, gentle sister. She was not 
strong like Mildred. You know the rest, Arthur, 
I killed him. Yes, I killed Mildred McElroy’s 
father. And when I am gone, Arthur — you hear 
me — all I have is yours. It will help to comfort 
you, and Mildred, too. I know you love her. 
Glendowen has been with me during the past 
few days, and has attended to all business mat- 
ters. He knows my financial condition, but noth- 
ing more.” 

Not until the morning twilight had faded did 
Arthur Fairfield give up his watch over the dying 
man — the man who in his boyhood days had 
brought him so much happiness, and in manhood 
so much sorrow. 

“The end is near,” said the physician to Mr. 
Glendowen, as he drew away Arthur’s hand from 
that of the sufferer’s, who just then struggled as 
if to speak. 

“Give him, O Lord, eternal rest, and let per 


240 Mildred McElroy. 

petual light shine unto him. May he rest in 
peace.” 

The young priest has been speaking. This is 
the last. 

“We will go home now, Arthur,” whispered 
the broker’s friend. “You are worn out. I 
have telephoned the house,” he continued, “and 
we are expecting Mildred at any time. She has 
been in Detroit. I will not rebuke you now, Ar- 
thur, for the rash act you have done. You have 
suffered far too much. 

“Mildred is here, Arthur,” said Mrs. Glen- 
dowen softly, as she laid her hand upon the young 
man’s shoulder. “Can you see her?” 

“Can I see her, Mrs. Glendowen ?” he repeated, 
as he sunk into a chair in that familiar library 
to wait for the one who a year ago he thought to 
have parted from for the last time. 

The door opened and Arthur Fairfield took 
Mildred McElroy in his arms, whispering to her 
the simple words : “It is all over.” 


THE END. 































































































































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